First Contact Disaster and the Naughty Listener
by Heraclitus
Summary: The USS Lovelock encounters an embittered Listener working for the Dominion while initiating first contact with the people of Tagmaaros.


The First Contact Disaster and the Naughty Listener  
  
Prologue  
  
A vast sheet of calculations had accumulated during the night, spread out across Professor Valtan's desk as he finished his scribblings and forced himself to release the grip on his pen, which plopped onto the paper. He ran a thumb and forefinger into tired eyes and finally pulled his chair away from his desk, shaking his head in exasperation. He got up, reached over and switched off the electric desk lamp before swinging slowly around and making his way to the curtains behind his desk. He pulled them open one at a time.  
  
"Another hot and hazy day in beautiful Hawaii," the Professor muttered absentmindedly, as his squinting eyes adjusted to the incoming sunlight.  
  
Valtan was growing tired of his self-imposed intellectual obscurity, yet he was obliged by law and custom to remain in such obscurity. His problem was not that his work was too difficult; far from it, the research and study he did here was facilely dull. His problem was drawing that fine line between pre- and post-warp technologies, and knowing when to keep his mouth shut when he could open it and show off his genius. How could they not see what he saw? Their physics was archaic to him, almost irreducible, incommensurable to the sciences of his species. He found it difficult towing that fine line, found it agonising to pretend ignorance when he knew all the answers. Found it difficult not to scream out at all the Einsteins and the Heisenbergs and the Curies of the world "Don't you see? Are you really that blind? You're all wrong, in your own way you're right, but in my way you're wrong!" His work then, was not in itself frustrating. It was the lies he had to accept. they made him weary. tired him out.  
  
There was a knock on the door of his study, and he called out "Come in". His wife, Vanessa, the most beautiful human he had ever met, was standing in the doorway as the door swung inwards, disappointed expression on her face and accusatory wag of her index finger. She was wearing her Sunday clothes, a bright, flowery, low-cut number and a cream hat with matching gloves.  
  
"That's the second night in a row, Peter," she admonished.  
  
"I know," he replied, "I'm sorry. So sorry. It's just when the work is there, I have to complete it." His eyes fell to the carpet. She stepped into the room, took a few steps towards his desk. "You need to sleep some time, you know."  
  
"I know. I know. Darling, I'm so sorry." He moved away from the window, towards her, embraced her strenuously, held her, their faces inches apart. His voice lowered.  
  
"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"  
  
"Come with me to the service today, Peter." "No. You know how I feel about religion."  
  
"Yes, but Peter-for me."  
  
"No. And is it noon already?"  
  
"No. I'm catching the eight o'clock Mass. I missed you in bed, woke up early so I figured, what the hey, I'll catch the early service."  
  
He smiled at her, gave her a peck on the lips. If only she knew what he was working on. If only she knew who he really was. She knew he was bright, she had been attracted by his intellect, but if only she knew just how bright. he was like Venus to mankind's Pluto.  
  
"I'm so sorry, darling."  
  
"Come with me," she implored.  
  
"Vanessa, you know I don't believe in God. God is a creation of man, and man cannot hope to aim at perfection if perfection is exemplified in a perfect deity. God is just an excuse, a cop-out, if you will, the reason not to attain perfection. He's the eternal yardstick against which you can't even dream to measure yourselves."  
  
"But if you just came to Mass with me, Peter, just once-"  
  
"How is it that the Gospel of Saint John begins, Vanessa?"  
  
She sighed; she had heard it all before.  
  
"In the beginning was the Word."  
  
"The Word. And without people, there would be no Word, Vanessa. The words are created by the people. And you should not worship that which you've created."  
  
She laughed.  
  
"That which you have created. Sometimes I wonder, Peter."  
  
".And what is it you wonder?"  
  
"I wonder about you, Peter Michael Valtan. You talk about the rest of mankind in the second person. All the time, like you're above the rest of us. Or beyond us. Like you're not of this world."  
  
Peter Michael Valtan laughed uncomfortably.  
  
"All right, all right, my love. I will go to the church with you. This once I shall attend the anachronistic ritual and pray to this God of yours that the war will end."  
  
"Thank you, Peter. You may even find that you enjoy it." Vanessa kissed her husband lightly, gratefully, on the lips and departed from his study. She turned to face him in the doorway, door-handle in her hand. "It's only twenty after seven. Maybe we could go for a stroll along the docks before we get Mass?"  
  
His eyes lit at the idea.  
  
"You're such a romantic," he said, and he looked down at the calculations on the desk, and then looked back at her. "Just give me ten minutes here with my work, my darling. Ten minutes. In fact, why don't you go ahead down to the harbour and I'll be along shortly. We'll meet in the usual spot." He smiled at her again, she returned his smile and with a sweep of her dress, departed. He waited to hear the front door slamming shut, and moved from his desk to the portrait of his 'grandfather', dressed in navy blue 1860's Union uniform, grim expression, fierce eyes, strong nose, pursed lips.  
  
"Excuse me, grand-daddy," Valtan told the painting, removing it from the wall to expose the obligatory safe behind it. "Eighty-two. twenty-three. nine. sixty-six. twelve," he said as he twisted the knob around and then the safe door dutifully popped open. He removed the tiny sub-space communicator from within, held it in the palm of his left hand and tapped it lightly twice with the forefinger of his right hand. There was a sharp crackle of static followed by the whistle of some feedback and then silence. Valtan lifted the communicator to his lips:  
  
"This is Vaaltan to the Azra-Tor. Vaaltan to the Elorean vessel Azra-Tor. Are you receiving my signal?"  
  
A second crackle of static ensued, followed by the words "Vaaltan, this is the Azra-Tor. We're just entering your system now. We'll be in orbit within the hour."  
  
Vaaltan smiled. "Proklen, is that you? It's so good to hear your voice, old friend. How are you?"  
  
"In good health," responded the communicator, "And you?"  
  
"Never been better. Proklen. I know I'm scheduled to leave this. barbarian planet today but. Proklen, you won't believe me." There was silence from the communicator. "Proklen, I've. I'm in love with one of the humans. We've been married for two months now." There was joy in Vaaltan's voice as he said the words. He felt so happy to be conveying this personal knowledge to one of his own kind; it gave a ring of finality to his relationship. At the same time, he was apprehensive about Proklen's reaction. "I really can't leave her, and she cannot come with me?"  
  
"No. No, she can't."  
  
"So I've decided to stay, Proklen. Just for a little while. Five, maybe six decades, and then. well, I'll see you again. We'll meet up and talk about ancient times. Proklen, are you there?"  
  
There was silence from the communicator.  
  
"Proklen. can you hear me?"  
  
"Yes, yes, I'm here, Vaaltan, and I'm glad you've finally found your happiness again. Just make sure you use contraception. We don't need three- hundred-year-old humans defying the laws of their genetics."  
  
Vaaltan sighed with relief. "Yes, of course not."  
  
Proklen continued. "And remember, Vaaltan, we're just a subspace message away if you ever need anything. anything at all. Keep in good health, my friend. Azra-Tor out." Vaaltan held the device in his hand for a moment, stood frozen with stupid glee. Finally, he chuckled to himself, chuckled at his own introspected state, and thought about how love had transformed him into a happy oaf. He deactivated the transmitter, tossed it back into his safe, slammed it shut and replaced the picture.  
  
"God." he said to himself, "God is good."  
  
Then the first explosion went off and the sirens started sounding.  
  
  
  
  
  
Vanessa Valtan had been standing at the dock, awaiting her husband, when the drone, the hum, the ominous buzzing sound of the approaching but still distant airplanes began. The noise grew louder and she could see the specks, coming from the east, black dots against the rising sun. She stood watching for a few minutes until the planes were over the harbour and the first boom of an explosion rocked the dock and she realised the harbour was under attack. Sirens started sounding.  
  
But the Americans weren't at war, she thought, this is crazy, who would attack the Americans?  
  
Then she saw Peter, further up the dock, screaming her name over the scream of the sirens, sprinting towards her. The ship moored at the dock beside her was suddenly engulfed in an explosion, and she was thrown across, away from the destroyer, onto the ground. She got back to her feet, waved to her husband, started to run towards him and then she was everyhere at once, parts of her all over the dock and the blast blew Vaaltan back and sideways into the hull of the blazing inferno that was once the U.S.S. Cassin. Having hit the ship's hull, he fell into the water with a splosh where he regained consciousness immediately and resurfaced, struggled towards a loose rope dangling from a mooring on the dock. He climbed back onto land, water dripping from his saturated clothes, a deep gash on his left cheek and the knuckles on both hands somehow badly grazed. He ran into the fire and the smoke to where his wife had been standing, searching, hoping against futility and against fate. His eyes were watering through the smoke and he started to cough paroxysmally, out of grief and rage and hatred. He stooped down and padded the hot ground with his hands, frantically looking for something, anything and picked up a tiny piece of smouldering flesh before being grabbed by two American soldiers in combat uniform and being escorted away from the danger.  
  
"Come on, buddy, you're okay now, you're safe," one of the humans told him, "Let's get you outta here, away from all this."  
  
His eyes began to clear, and he looked down at the piece of flesh in his hand and saw that it was the wedding finger of his obliterated wife, the wedding ring still intact on the finger.  
  
"Oh God," he groaned, "Oh my God Almighty what have you done to me? How could you do this? You Almighty bastard what have you done?"  
  
Chapter One  
  
Captain's Log Stardate 51718.3  
  
The Lovelock will be arriving at D.S. Four within the hour, where my chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Sana, will be leaving us. She is to be reassigned to Jupiter Station where her expertise in holotechnology will be put to good use. We are to receive a new engineer at D.S. Four. We shall also be detailed about our next mission by Admiral Paris, whose communiqué with orders to meet us at the station was rather surreptitious in tone, leading me to the conclusion that the particulars of our next mission shall be of a covert nature, probably something to do with the Dominion War.  
  
Captain Van Menzies stepped off the U.S.S. Lovelock and onto the space station, followed by his first officer, Lieutenant Commander Leroy Phelps, who was carrying a large metal suitcase, and his chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Sana. Van Menzies extended his arm and grasped the hand of Lieutenant Admiral Tarvek, who had been standing awaiting the captain at the airlock doors, a Star Fleet security officer on either side of him.  
  
"Captain Van Menzies. it's been a long time," the Vulcan said in greeting. They had known each other for years; Tarvek's sister, T'nell, had been in Van Menzies's class at the Academy.  
  
"About four years," Van Menzies replied, "Congratulations on your promotion, admiral. It's going to be strange having to call you 'sir' again after so long."  
  
"It's a brevet position only, captain. The sudden death of Admiral Takon Derril called for his position to be filled."  
  
"Yes, I heard," Van Menzies's expression was momentarily condoling, "You've met my first officer, I believe."  
  
"Commander Phelps," the Vulcan nodded his greeting as Van Menzies continued. "And this is my chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Sona."  
  
Tarvek again nodded, and the four officers began striding down the corridor, flanked on either side by a security guard.  
  
"How are the wife and kids?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"The twins are in good health and T'para is expecting."  
  
"Oh yes, every seven years. I forgot. Congratulations, admiral," Van Menzies said.  
  
"Thank you, captain. However, with the War going as it is, I am uncertain as to whether or not I shall be present at the birth," Tarvek said, "And how is your family?"  
  
"Alva is fine. George entered the Academy this year. I'm a little worried about him, with the Dominion and everything, but of course I'm proud of the kid passing the entrance exams."  
  
"Of course." Tarvek turned abruptly to Lieutenant Commander Sana. "You are to meet with Louis Zimmerman on Level Five, Section Eight." Tarvek pointed at the elevator doors nearest the group. "That turbolift will take you there."  
  
"Yes, sir." Sana looked at Van Menzies, smiled a goodbye.  
  
"Thank you for everything, sir," she said finally, and a tear shot out of the tiny duct in her left eye and struck Van Menzies in the face, who diplomatically ignored it.  
  
"Please don't cry, Sona," Van Menzies said, and he took her hands, placed them on his cheeks, as was the traditional Venaran farewell custom. "You've been one of the best officers I've ever worked with. We'll all miss you. Commander Phelps will escort you to Dr. Zimmerman's office."  
  
"Yes, sir," she responded, her voice choking up. She removed her hands from his face reluctantly, turned with Phelps, and shuffled towards the turbolift doors. Tarvek and Van Menzies continued down the corridor, the security officers behind them.  
  
Leroy Phelps watched Sana's face as she regained her composure. They stepped into the turbolift together, and he said "You're genuinely upset."  
  
She returned his gaze, a little incensed.  
  
"Of course I'm upset. I've been on the Lovelock since she was launched six years ago. Level Five," she told the computer as the lift doors hissed shut. Her eyes moved from his face, her expression changed a little, became more relaxed. She wasn't going to cry again, not for Leroy Phelps.  
  
"I may never see you again," he said quietly.  
  
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," she hissed.  
  
"You seem to forget we're at war," he said to her.  
  
"And isn't it better for me to be in the safety of Jupiter station, working with Louis Zimmerman on some emergency hologram, than to be on a starship making its way through Cardassian space on some suicide mission?" Sana wanted to know.  
  
"Yes." Phelps said, and she doubted his sincerity, so he gave her a more emphatic, "Hell, yes, of course it's better for you, Sana, it's just. it's not better for us."  
  
Phelps and Sana had been having a clandestine relationship for six months now. She preferred it that way; Leroy did not. In Venaran society, clandestine relationships were the norm, to such an extent that a pregnancy was considered a success if the father was unknown to all but the mother. Sana's aristocratic background on her homeworld stemmed from a very dubious line of descent on her father's side (whoever he was) and she was not going to ruin it all by overtly professing her love for a human called Leroy Phelps.  
  
"The Lovelock and her crew will survive the War," the Venaran declared, "If she has survived until now, she'll see the War out. Even if she has an inept captain-" she paused, as Leroy inhaled sharply, and she could see the anger rising in his expression, first wrinkling his forehead, then furrowing his brow.  
  
"We both know that Van Menzies is not inept, Sana. He may be a lot of things, but he's not inept-"  
  
"I know, I know. I was joking!" she laughed at his sense of loyalty and his indignation.  
  
"The cap'n's having a rough time lately, that's all," Leroy said. He was sensitive about the fact that a number of officers serving onboard the Lovelock had recently questioned Van Menzies's fitness for command.  
  
"You don't have to defend him, Leroy. Van Menzies and I are actually quite close, you know." Sana's nictating membranes flickered over her eyes and she gave him an artificial smile, the Venaran equivalent of the tongue in the cheek, to let Leroy know she had just been sarcastic. Leroy felt a sudden urge to kiss her.  
  
"Computer, halt turbolift," he ordered. The computer bleeped and the lift stopped. He moved towards her, dropped the suitcase in his hand, held her around the waist. She resisted him, moved her head back.  
  
"I told you before, Leroy, not while we're in uniform."  
  
"Sana. please. don't be so prudish."  
  
"Computer!" she shouted, "Resume!"  
  
The computer bleeped.  
  
"Computer!" Leroy shouted, "Halt turbolift."  
  
The computer bleeped.  
  
"Resume!" Sana shouted.  
  
The computer blee  
  
"Halt!"  
  
The computer ble  
  
"Resume!"  
  
"Halt-security clearance one-Phelps, Leroy, Lieutenant Commander, Star Fleet, Epsilon five zero nine seven alpha."  
  
The computer bleeped with an air of finality.  
  
Sana looked at Leroy in amazement and then anger.  
  
"How dare you use your authority in order to-to steal-a kiss from me, Leroy!" Sana turned her face as his moved towards her and his lips collided awkwardly with her cheek.  
  
"Just one kiss," he pleaded.  
  
"No, Leroy, I can't believe you abused your-"  
  
He kissed her hard on the lips until she responded with a passion equal to his own.  
  
  
  
  
  
Van Menzies and Tarvek continued down the corridor, on their way to Admiral Paris's section, the two security officers a few steps behind them.  
  
"So what's the next mission all about, sir?" the captain asked.  
  
"The next mission?" Tarvek repeated.  
  
"The next mission for the Lovelock?"  
  
"I do not know. Admiral Paris has not informed me of its details," the Vulcan said.  
  
"Must be important," Van Menzies said.  
  
"Why do you assume it is of importance?" Tarvek asked.  
  
"Well it must be, you know, top secret if even you don't know about it," Van Menzies reasoned.  
  
"Admiral Paris likes to keep things to himself. I assure you, though, that if the mission was of any significance to Star Fleet, if it related in any way to the war with the Dominion, for instance, I would be aware of its details," Tarvek said, and he stopped at a door, pressed a button on the panel, and the doorbell beeped.  
  
"Come in," a voice called, the door hissed open, and human and Vulcan stepped into Admiral Paris's office. The room was large, sparsely decorated. Paris sat at his desk at the far wall, facing the door, two empty chairs before the desk which the admiral motioned to as the two officers moved forward.  
  
"Van Menzies," the admiral began, as Tarvek and Van Menzies sat down, "How is the captain of the Lovelock?"  
  
"I'm very good, thank you, sir," Van Menzies lied.  
  
"Good. Good." Paris's eyes moved down to one of the three data padds on his desk before him. He picked it up, ran his eyes down through the information as it scrolled along the screen. He continued talking as he read. "You've put on a little weight since I last saw you, captain."  
  
Van Menzies looked down at his ample paunch.  
  
"Yes sir. I suppose I have. I've. eh-I used to go hiking. on the holodeck. Gave it up last year."  
  
"You shouldn't have done that, Van Menzies. Keep in shape. We need to set a good example for the rest of our officers."  
  
"Yes, sir," Van Menzies sighed irritably, crossed his arms, crossed his legs.  
  
"Yes. yes," Paris said distantly, immersed in his reading. Eventually, he looked up. "We've taken your chief engineer away from you," he said.  
  
"Yes, sir. She's going to Jupiter. Something of a promotion for her if I understand correctly," Van Menzies said. "We're all very proud of her."  
  
"I would hope so," Paris said, "Her replacement is Lieutenant Derek, who shall be arriving from Risa on a Klingon freighter in six hours time. There will also be another officer joining your crew, a Corporal Karg of the Klingon Fleet. He's on the Federation-Klingon exchange program and will be working for the next week or so onboard the Lovelock. You don't have any problems with that?" Paris asked.  
  
"No, sir," Van Menzies said curtly.  
  
"Now," Paris picked up the second data padd, perused its contents quickly. "You recently put in some sort of a request for runabouts?" The admiral raised his eyebrows inquisitively, looked at the captain.  
  
"Yes, sir," Van Menzies returned Paris's look.  
  
"Why do you need runabouts?" Paris asked.  
  
Van Menzies uncrossed his legs and said "The Lovelock has eight shuttles capable of a maximum warp of factor two. I would just like to have faster reconnaissance vessels at my disposal, sir. Bigger craft. in case of emergencies, evacuations, that kind of thing. That's all."  
  
Paris looked down at the padd in his hand, once more scanned its contents.  
  
"The Lovelock has been allotted four runabouts, captain. They're brand new. Yellowstone Class. They're in Docking Bay Two. You can name them yourself," he said.  
  
Van Menzies smiled. "Thank you, sir," he said, and ran his fingers through his grey-white hair, scratched the scruff of his neck, "thank you very much."  
  
Paris replaced the second padd on the desk, picked up the third padd. "Now. your next mission," he began, "is formal First Contact with the Tagmaari, the last of the sentient species in this sector to attain warp technology." Paris tossed the padd into Van Menzies's hands, the captain fumbled with the object and it slipped out of his grasp and onto the floor. He quickly scooped it back up, Paris watching with detached bemusement. "Everything you need to know is on that."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Van Menzies got to his feet, Tarvek ahemmed, and Van Menzies and Paris both looked at him, Van Menzies politely re-seating himself.  
  
"Admiral," Tarvek began, " I do not mean to." they continued to look at Tarvek, who tried another approach. "Captain Van Menzies has had the nickname of 'Joker' since his days at Star Fleet Academy some thirty years ago."  
  
Paris's response was "I'm aware of that, admiral."  
  
"Surely sending the Joker on a First Contact mission is something of a risk?" Tarvek said. He had not wished to hurt the captain's feelings, but he could see from the expression on Van Menzies's face that he had succeeded in doing so. He quickly added "I do not mean to offend-"  
  
"It's too late!" Van Menzies shouted sarcastically, in a tone of mock offence, and Admiral Paris watched as Van Menzies's nickname became justified before his eyes. "Thanks for your faith in my abilities. You've hurt my feelings, Tarvek, and whatever friendship we had has been irreparably damaged. I'll never forgive you for this."  
  
Tarvek's eyes dropped to the floor; he did not appreciate being deflated by the Joker, and had for years been the victim of Van Menzies's practical jokes and sarcastic remarks.  
  
The Vulcan muttered under his breath "All the good captains must be busy."  
  
"What's that?" Van Menzies exclaimed, seizing upon the lieutenant admiral's remark like an angler gripping a record-sized trout. "You just said 'All the good captains must be busy', Tarvek. That was a joke, and Vulcans don't make jokes!"  
  
Tarvek turned to Van Menzies, looked into the captain's eyes, a clinical, deadpan expression on his face. "I assure you, captain, I was not joking," he replied evenly.  
  
"A joke and then a denial!" Van Menzies shouted, looking first at Paris and then back at Tarvek, "You told a joke and then you lied about it! Humour and mendacity does not a Vulcan make."  
  
Van Menzies got up off his chair again and seized the Vulcan's cheek between a thumb and forefinger. "You sure this guy isn't a changeling, admiral?" Van Menzies asked Paris, pulling at Tarvek's face. Paris watched the proceedings in silent awe, not knowing whether to laugh or bawl.  
  
"Captain Van Menzies. please. sit down," he said finally.  
  
Van Menzies did as ordered, crossed his legs again.  
  
"I have. the utmost faith in Captain Van Menzies," Paris told Tarvek, doubting his own words even as he said them. "The Tagmaari are a highly idiosyncratic species and I'm sure that Captain Van Menzies shall get on very well with them."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Van Menzies said once more, throwing an I-told-you-so look at Tarvek.  
  
  
  
The Level Five turbolift doors hissed open, the two officers stepped out onto the corridor. She released her grip on his hand, looked into his eyes.  
  
"I'll miss you, Leroy," she said quietly.  
  
"I'll miss you," he said.  
  
"Don't get killed while I'm gone."  
  
"I won't." He handed her the suitcase, rubbed her upper arm with his hand, moved it slowly up to her face, and touched her cheek, held his hand there, frozen. She gave him a final smile, a genuine one this time, turned, and was gone.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Two  
  
The bay of the Klingon freight vessel was full, its cargo mainly people, at least five hundred beings in all, sitting, standing, crouching, some of them silent, some of them singing folk songs, some of them chattering amicably to each other, a bond connecting them. That bond was their refugee status and they were the victims of war, on their way to their new home, Earth, via Deep Space Four where the U.S.S. Pike was awaiting their arrival.  
  
All of them, that is, except for Da' Karg of the Klingon Fleet and Lieutenant Derek of the Federation. The two had not yet met. Not formally anyway.  
  
Karg sat up, perched against his rucksack, his second last bottle of blood wine in one hand, a dagger in the other. He was intently watching the Star Fleet officer who was sitting against the wall facing the Klingon, twitching neurasthenically. Karg had not seen action in almost two months; he had badly broken a leg in his last hand-to-hand encounter with a Jem'Hadar soldier. The bone had not properly healed; the subsequent operation was a disaster, so Karg had killed his doctor and travelled to Deep Space Nine where the doctor there, Bashir, had repaired the limb with impressive speed. General Martok had ordered Karg to go to Deep Space Four where he was to join the crew of a Federation starship and show Star Fleet what Klingon officers were made of. Now Karg watched one such officer, a Vulcan, sitting opposite him, fidgeting with what seemed to be anxiety. Judging by the uniform, Karg thought to himself, that yellow tunic beneath the grey jacket made the Vulcan an engineer. or was it security? Karg could not remember. All that really mattered was that the command officers wore red. They were the ones who mattered. He threw his head back and poured some wine down his throat, before looking once again at the Vulcan. Those pips on his collar made him an ensign, maybe a lieutenant at best. Karg debated with himself whether or not it was worth his while to introduce himself, all the while never taking his eyes off the Star Fleet officer.  
  
Lieutenant Derek sat with his back to the wall, his eyes on the floor, uncomfortably aware of the fact that a Klingon warrior sitting opposite him had been staring at him for the last two hours. He wished the Klingon would just get it over with and challenge him or do whatever it was the Klingons did when they did not like the look of Vulcan engineers.  
  
Derek had seen a lot of action lately. Far too much, for his liking. Except Vulcans didn't have likings. Or at least, they weren't supposed to. Most of Derek's friends had been killed in this War. When the casualty lists came in every week, sure enough, he would recognise at least one of the names. One name that had turned from a Vulcan or a Bolian or an Andorran or a human, into a mere statistic. The War, against a Gamma Quadrant Dominion which often seemed technologically superior to Alpha Quadrant cultures and whose soldiers, from what he'd read about them, could be bred so quickly, could be replaced with such speed, that killing them did not matter all that much. and Derek had killed six of them, one after the next, and they had almost succeeded in murdering him. killing a Jem'Hadar was just that. putting a vicious beast out of its misery. when they in turn killed a friend of his, it was murder. They were taking the life of an individual. That was how Derek had justified killing six Jem'Hadar soldiers, one after the next, in the cargo bay of the Enterprise, no more than a month ago, when some fifty soldiers had beamed onto the starship in order to take it. vicious, vicious animals. He remembered their faces, recalled the expression of each one, particularly the final one, the one which had raised its rifle, had pointed it at Derek's head, had been ready to murder him where Derek had not been ready to die. And the Klingons talk about moments of clarity, on the battlefield, between warriors, moments of being, moments of realisation. and Derek had seen that the Jem'Hadar, that Jem'Hadar had wanted to kill him, had wanted to murder Derek. And Derek's expression, his eyes had told the Jem'Hadar beast that Derek had not wanted to die, that he was not yet ready. and the soldier read all this in the Vulcan's eyes, and Derek saw that he saw it, saw that the Jem'Hadar understood. And the Jem'Hadar had tossed his weapon to the floor of the cargo bay; he wanted to fight hand-to-hand combat, wanted to kill Derek the primitive way. And he had charged at the Vulcan, and Derek had reached down, picked up his phaser which had itself been knocked to the floor, set it at fourteen, fired, set it at fourteen, fired, set it at fourteen, fired. the soldier had been utterly vaporised. The War, Derek did not doubt, was a war against rabid animals.  
  
Animals whose changeling demigods had infiltrated the Federation, who were everywhere if the reports were anything to go by and why was he, Derek, still alive? Why him? Why should he survive where others, so many others, had perished? So many people had ceased to be where he had lived. it was illogical. And Derek had faced death too many times of late not to realise that he was running out of luck. Not that Vulcans believed in luck. But they believed in chance. They believed in odds. And the odds were against him.  
  
"Da' Karg of the Klingon Fleet," the Klingon's gutteral voice broke into Derek's train of thought, "I was not aware that Vulcans fidget."  
  
Derek looked up at the Klingon and stopped his movement.  
  
"I was not fidgeting," Derek replied.  
  
"You were rubbing your palms off your pants and your feet were trembling," the Klingon insisted.  
  
"I apologise," Derek said, "I was deep in thought."  
  
"Da' Karg of the Klingon Fleet," Karg repeated.  
  
"I am Lieutenant Derek of Star Fleet," Derek answered.  
  
"And what are you doing on a Klingon freighter, Lieutenant Derek of Star Fleet?" Karg demanded to know.  
  
"The Klingon vessel was the only means of transportation available to Deep Space Four."  
  
"And why are you going to Deep Space Four, Lieutenant Derek of Star Fleet?" Karg asked.  
  
"I am to assume my new position there as chief engineer of the U.S.S. Lovelock," Derek told him.  
  
"The Lovelock? That's my ship. I'm assigned to her also."  
  
"You?" Derek asked, incredulous.  
  
"It's part of the Klingon-Federation Exchange Program."  
  
"The Klingon Federation Exchange Program?"  
  
"The program must be at least ten years old now. I am surprised you have not heard of it."  
  
"I was not aware that such an agreement existed."  
  
Karg grinned, a hint of pride in his voice as he said "I look forward to taking part in battle onboard a Federation starship."  
  
Klingons, Derek thought, Klingons relish the pain of a violent death. It was something Derek could not himself comprehend. He had been on the Enterprise only three weeks before, having been partly responsible for preventing a Jem'Hadar take over. Picard had commended him, and Derek had tried to resign his commission, had wanted to get away, go home to Vulcan, to breathe in the rarefied air of home, to sleep, he needed sleep so badly, the War had turned him into an insomniac, and he had lost his meditative abilities months ago. he could concentrate on nothing. So he informed Picard of his decision to leave Star Fleet, and Picard had talked him out of it; Derek could not remember exactly what it was the venerated captain had said to him, could not recall the words he had used, his line of argument. It was all a blur to him. Derek had left his ready room, had taken the turbolift back to Engineering, a little dazed, and it was later that day, as his shift ended, that Commander La Forge had recommended that Derek "should maybe take a break". So Derek had gone to Risa for a fortnight, had recovered a little, and then the news came that he was being transferred to the Lovelock as chief engineer. the sleeplessness, the inability to concentrate, it all came back with something else, something that he had managed to suppress before, something he had denied he was feeling. Fear of his own mortality.  
  
"I too am an engineer, lieutenant," Karg repeated for the third time.  
  
"Oh," Derek replied distantly.  
  
"I will be working directly under your command."  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
  
  
  
The freighter arrived at Deep Space Four, the passengers passing through the airlock, Derek being one of the last of them to exit the vessel. Captain Van Menzies and Lieutenant Commander Leroy Phelps stood at the airlock door as the Vulcan emerged from a throng of Betazoids, and when he saw the two command officers waiting for him, Van Menzies holding a data padd under his arm, Derek stiffened, became more rigid.  
  
"Lieutenant Derek?" Phelps asked.  
  
Derek nodded.  
  
"At ease," Van Menzies said, and Derek did not even make an effort to relax his body. "I'm Captain Van Menzies, this is my first officer, Lieutenant Commander Phelps. I believe we have to wait for a Klingon?"  
  
"Corporal Karg is bidding farewell to the crew of the freighter," Derek explained, "He said he would follow us shortly."  
  
"Very well," Van Menzies said, and the three officers followed the throng of Betazoids into the industrial turbo-lift before the doors closed. Van Menzies addressed himself to Phelps. "Our next mission is First Contact with the Tagmaari, commander," he said.  
  
"The Tagmaari?" Phelps repeated.  
  
"The last civilisation in this sector to attain warp technology."  
  
"Oh." Phelps was quiet, he seemed preoccupied. His thoughts were on Commander Sana.  
  
"Something wrong, Phelps?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"No, sir. Sorry."  
  
"Apparently they've been eavesdropping on our subspace communications."  
  
"Who's this?" Phelps asked.  
  
"The Tagmaari. They reached warp nearly a month ago, right under the noses of the Federation, and now they're listening in on our communications. Got in touch with us that way. Isn't that funny, Phelps?" Van Menzies said.  
  
"Yes, cap'n. Hilarious," Phelps murmured.  
  
"So we told them we'd meet them."  
  
"Very good sir."  
  
"We told them we'd lick their bellies for them and show them how to grow their beards."  
  
"Very good, sir."  
  
"Leroy, what's wrong with you? You're not even listening!" Van Menzies shouted.  
  
"Sorry," Phelps said, snapping out of his daydream, "Just thinking. What was it you were-"  
  
"I was just saying that the Tagmaari were monitoring our subspace communications, got in touch with us that way. We said we'd meet them tomorrow. Oh-eight hundred hours tomorrow morning."  
  
The lift doors opened and the group of Betazoids exited, leaving Derek, Van Menzies and Phelps alone in the elevator.  
  
"Docking Ring Three," Van Menzies said to the computer, and the doors shut again. "We've been allotted four Yellowstone Class runabouts."  
  
"Great news, sir," Phelps said, showing a little more enthusiasm.  
  
"And I was just thinking," Van Menzies went on, "Maybe we could name them after twentieth century aircraft."  
  
The turbolift doors opened, Van Menzies, Phelps and Derek stepped through the airlock and onto the Lovelock to be met by Lieutenant Irving Bernstein, the Lovelock's head of security.  
  
"Welcome back," were Bernstein's first words.  
  
"This is our new engineer, Lieutenant Derek," Phelps told Bernstein, "Derek, this is Bernstein, from security."  
  
"Hello," Derek said.  
  
Bernstein nodded, and turned immediately to Van Menzies as they started down the corridor.  
  
"Burnett, Djanamar and Udigawa have been stuck down a jeffries tube in Engineering for the last couple of hours, but they've done the business," Bernstein informed his superior.  
  
"Good."  
  
"We've re-aligned the long-range sensors like you asked, they're fully operational."  
  
"Great."  
  
"The new E.M.H. has just been installed," Bernstein went on.  
  
"It's about time. Any problems?"  
  
"Dr. Tobriad says he's friendlier than the last one."  
  
"Friendlier?"  
  
"He said the last one was too snappy."  
  
"Any problems?" Van Menzies repeated impatiently.  
  
"Well, sir, the first time he attempted to activate the program, he got some farmyard animals instead of a doctor. The animals are part of Crewman Dorff's Colony Game. But the glitch in the holo-matrix has been repaired, and the E.M.H. is online."  
  
"Good. What about the shields?"  
  
"We took Sana's advice and, in theory, we can get them up to one- hundred and eight percent, but we have to divert power from other systems-"  
  
"Very good, lieutenant," Van Menzies cut in.  
  
"We're going to run a few tests as soon as we leave the station," Bernstein went on.  
  
"Good. Next time we're in a pickle, we'll use those extra shields," Van Menzies said.  
  
"In a pickle?" Derek asked.  
  
"It's an old Earth saying, Derek," Van Menzies explained. "It means when we're in a jam."  
  
"In a jam?" Derek repeated, nonplussed.  
  
"Yeah," Van Menzies went on, "In a tight squeeze, you know? When the shit hits the fan, we'll use those extra shields."  
  
Derek shook his head.  
  
"I believe you mean that when the Lovelock is under attack, you will raise shields to their maximum strength, but I fail to see what excrement hitting a ventilation device has to do with inter-quadrant warfare."  
  
Van Menzies held Derek's look for a moment before saying "It's good to have you aboard, Mr. Derek." He turned to the other two officers. "As I was saying to Commander Phelps, we've been given four new runabouts which we have to pick up before we leave the station." They stepped into yet another turbolift.  
  
"Deck one," Phelps said as the doors closed.  
  
"I'll get Gilson and Yovraz on it right away, sir," Bernstein said, before Van Menzies continued.  
  
"And I was thinking we should name them after twentieth century aircraft."  
  
"Good idea," Phelps said.  
  
"The Spirit of Saint Louis. how does that sound?"  
  
"Good," Bernstein said, excitedly, "Very good."  
  
"The Enola Gay?"  
  
"Very catchy," Phelps said.  
  
"The Flying Dutchman?"  
  
"Nice," said Bernstein.  
  
"And the U-2?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Phelps said, a note of confusion in his voice.  
  
"What is it, commander?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"It's just. I believe the U-2 were a musical group and not an aircraft, sir."  
  
"No, no, no," Van Menzies said, "They were both. Don't you know your history, Phelps?"  
  
Derek, who had been listening intently to the conversation, interrupted with the words "Captain. if I may?"  
  
"What is it, lieutenant?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"First of all, The Flying Dutchman was not an aircraft. It was the title of an opera written by Richard Wagner, one of your nineteenth century composers, who was also an anti-Semite." Van Menzies was mildly perturbed. He had wanted more than anything to name one of his runabouts the Flying Dutchman, as he himself was a Dutchman.  
  
"What's an anti-Semite?" Phelps asked.  
  
"Someone who hates Jews," the Vulcan answered.  
  
"Ah, one of the ancient religions," Bernstein said knowingly.  
  
"Secondly," Derek continued, "the Spirit of Saint Louis, the first aircraft to make a transatlantic crossing, was piloted by a Charles Lindberg, who was also a racist."  
  
The Vulcan had the captain's interest. "Yes," Van Menzies said, "Go on, lieutenant."  
  
"The Enola Gay was the name of the American bomber which dropped a proto- nuclear device on the Japanese city of Hiroshima at the end of your Second World War, resulting in the deaths of some one hundred thousand people," Derek continued, "And the U-2 spy plane was shot down over your Soviet Union during the Cold War of the mid-twentieth century and led, I believe to the execution of the pilot and was of serious detriment to relations between two of your world superpowers."  
  
There was a moment's silence, the turbolift doors opened to reveal the bridge of the Lovelock, before the captain finally said, a little angrily,  
  
"What's your point, Derek?"  
  
"I am simply pointing out, captain, that you have not in fact given much consideration to the naming of your vessels. Had you been more familiar with your own world's history, you would have been aware of these-"  
  
"All right, all right, lieutenant. So I named one of the runabouts after a musical." Van Menzies turned to his first officer. "We'll change the name of the Flying Dutchman to the Hindenberg. How does that grab you, commander?" Van Menzies stepped out onto the bridge, his senior staff members following behind.  
  
"Has a nice ring to it, cap'n," Phelps said.  
  
Derek moved forward, alarmed.  
  
"Captain, I must again protest-"  
  
"Oh, do be quiet, Derek! We've more important things to be doing than worrying about the names of shuttlecraft." Van Menzies handed Phelps the padd in his hand. "You've got the floor, commander," he told him, "As soon as the runabouts and the Klingon are onboard, we'll set a course for Tagmaaros. Take it fast, warp eight, eight point five. We've got just twelve hours to get there. The co-ordinates are on that padd."  
  
"Aye, cap'n," Phelps said, looking at the padd, and Van Menzies disappeared into his ready room. He re-emerged for a moment, to shout out "Senior staff meeting at seven-thirty tomorrow morning," before again retreating to the ready room, and making the decision to have a drink or two in his quarters.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Captain Art Van Menzies was having a midlife crisis, and his second bottle of fifty-year-old Scotch whisky, in his quarters on board the Lovelock.  
  
He had recently celebrated his twentieth wedding anniversary.  
  
His son had begun his first term at Star Fleet Academy in San Francisco. He had tried to discourage George from following in his footsteps; he wanted his son to travel, at least for a year or two, to see the quadrant, war or no war.  
  
The war, he thought to himself, I'm not about to change my lifestyle because of some damn war. He had noticed a change in almost all of the high- ranking officers he regarded as friends. Most of them had changed for the better; they were more alert, more serious; some of them had even started getting back into shape; they acknowledged the burden of responsibility that came with war. Van Menzies was not about to change. He didn't like all the added responsibility, the lives he held in his hands, day in, day out. He hated it. He wanted a nebula to study, not a ketrocel-white processing plant to blow up. He wasn't going to change for anyone.  
  
He had wanted George to lead the kind of carefree life he himself would have liked to have had, but was denied because his own father, who had found Art's impudence intolerable, had pushed his son into Star Fleet "to straighten you out". Art had found that he didn't have to straighten out at all; he was funny so he was well liked, and he was smart, smart in both ways, so his lecturers were impressed with his wit as well as his work. They let him away with his impudence. He earned the nickname Joker. They probably would have let him away with more, but Art knew exactly where to draw that fine line if he was going to go places in Star Fleet, so he drew it and he never stepped over it. And he was comfortable there. And it only took him ten years to make Lieutenant Commander; he was just thirty- two at the time, an idealistic newly-wed with a recently born George, a promising career mapped out in the stars, and a lifelong Vulcan friend (a prerequisite for all legendary Star Fleet captains).  
  
His wife, Alva, had objected to his friendship with T'nell; rather she objected to the closeness of his friendship with her-at first. Alva got to know T'nell over the years, and found her to be warm and affectionate in her Vulcan way, but she also discovered that T'nell was the complete antithesis of what Art looked for in a woman.  
  
"You know," she told him on one occasion, as she placed the dirty dishes into the replicator, "There was a time when I envied your friendship with T'nell. I was kind of. jealous I suppose. But now I realise that she is the complete antithesis of what you look for in a woman."  
  
That's why Art liked T'nell. He liked her because he didn't like her. He had tried it on once, years before, at the Academy, but her cold, seemingly arrogant refusal of his advances had repulsed him, even frightened him. She had (logically) cited her reasons for denying him her body, listing all his foibles, his flaws, his (deservedly) questionable reputation among fellow classmates of the opposite sex, and so forth.  
  
"I feel that your sexual promiscuity may in fact imply that you are a maladjusted individual, Van Menzies," she had dutifully informed him, "And I therefore have no wish to engage in relations with you. I thank you for your generous offer, nonetheless."  
  
Those few words had forced Van Menzies to take a good look at himself. He adjusted. A little. And he made a friend of T'nell, only at first so as not to be on the wrong side of her cold and scathing Vulcan honesty ever again.  
  
T'nell had been captured eight months ago by the Jem'Hadar and was believed to be on Cardassia Prime, held as a high-ranking prisoner-of-war. Some intelligence sources said she had been killed, others said she was. Sometimes Van Menzies prayed she was dead. He'd read hundreds of reports about what Cardassians did to. he didn't want to think about it.  
  
Instead, he thought about how old his wife was looking lately. She was looking old; the little veiny bags under her eyes, the skin beginning to wobble under her chin, the fingertips starting to go purple, the yellow ear hair. Alva was not the woman she once was. Well, on the inside, maybe. And that was all that mattered, wasn't it?  
  
Isn't it? He thought, and then, You're fifty-two, of course your wife looks old.  
  
And there it was. Fifty-two. The heart of the matter. The reason for the obstreperous behaviour. The motivating factor behind his move from loud and charming to just plain loud. The why and wherefore of his very being.  
  
There was no counsellor on board the Lovelock. Maybe her Captain could do with one, Van Menzies thought. Even just, Van Menzies reasoned to himself, even just for a one night stand. it wouldn't have to be a long affair, just something to give him a little superficial self-worth. Ensign Burnett was looking incredible lately, more attractive to him now than when she first came onboard a month before. Maybe he would make his move, lay his cards down, let her know that he was interested in her.  
  
The doorbell to his quarters chimed.  
  
"Come in!" he roared, and in came  
  
"Ah! The exchange student!" Van Menzies exclaimed.  
  
The Klingon stood in the doorway, not knowing whether to enter.  
  
"Come in! Come in!" Van Menzies insisted.  
  
The Klingon did as he was told.  
  
"I am Karg, son of Kolek-"  
  
"And I am Art, son of Douglas, father of George, husband of Alva. How you finding Star Fleet, Karg?"  
  
"Thus far, it is an enlightening experience-"  
  
"No no no no no no no NO!. cut the bullshit, Karg? You'll have a drink! Computer, replicate two shot glasses." Van Menzies stumbled towards the replicator as the computer bleeped and responded: "There are seventeen varieties of-"  
  
"Just gimme the bloody glasses," Van Menzies stammered.  
  
Two large, black, rhombohedroid mugs materialised on the replicator pad. Van Menzies grabbed them and returned to the couch, placing the mugs on the coffee table, filling one for himself and emptying the contents of the bottle into Karg's mug.  
  
"Sit down, sit down in the n-name of Kahless!" Van Menzies waved the Klingon into a seat.  
  
"Captain, I am on duty, and it is unbecoming of a Star Fleet officer to drink on duty-"  
  
Van Menzies pointed a finger at Karg, the door, Karg, the wall, Karg.  
  
"Are you. Star Fleet. Mr. Karg?"  
  
"No, sir. But the Federation-Klingon-"  
  
"Federation cling on to my naked ass and. kiss it. that's my attitude."  
  
"Yes. Yes, sir."  
  
"Drink. Drink." Van Menzies poured a copious amount of alcohol down his throat. Karg followed suit reluctantly.  
  
"You know." Van Menzies said ". this whisky. is nearly as old as me. Isn't that sad? I don't think there's any whisky left that's older than me. I've been lookin' around and I can't find any. This whisky. is Scohotch whisky. The Irish. they distill it. and they spell it different. They ruin it."  
  
"Yes, sir," Karg said. There was awkward silence for a moment, until Karg finally said "I believe I met an Irishman on Deep Space Nine."  
  
"Ah O'Brien. O'Brine O'Brine O'Bri.en."  
  
"Yes sir. O'Brien."  
  
"That man."  
  
"Yes sir?"  
  
"If that man was marooned."  
  
"Yes sir?"  
  
".on a desolate M-class moon."  
  
"Yes sir?"  
  
"With nothing."  
  
"Ahem."  
  
"nothing at all."  
  
"Mm."  
  
"He'd be able to make a transporter."  
  
Karg waited.  
  
"Out of his toenail clippings. and his own shit."  
  
"Well, thank you for the drink, Captain. I must get back to Engineering." Karg got to his feet.  
  
"And that's no exaggeration."  
  
The Klingon made his way to the door.  
  
"I didn't. dismiss you," Van Menzies said.  
  
Karg turned and finally laughed.  
  
"You're not fit to dismiss anyone right now, Captain." The Klingon exited, and Van Menzies fell off the couch and onto the floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
The doorbell chimed. There was no answer. The doorbell chimed again, before the door hissed open.  
  
"Sirc!" Van Menzies rasped into the darkness. "Sirc! Are you there?"  
  
"Computer, lights," came a voice from the bedroom, and the quarters lit up.  
  
Van Menzies teetered into the quarters of his chief medical officer, and Sirc Tobriad teetered out of his bedroom, dressed in pyjamas, and into the living room.  
  
"Captain."  
  
"Sirc. it's 0600."  
  
"I am well aware of the time, Captain."  
  
They stood looking at each other for a moment.  
  
"Nice pyjamas," Van Menzies commented.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"I'm still drunk," Van Menzies explained, "We're scheduled to arrive at the Tagmaari home-world in two hours. and I've got a splitting headache."  
  
"You really shouldn't be drinking, Captain," Sirc admonished  
  
"When I'm off-duty I'll do as I please," Van Menzies shot back.  
  
"When you're off-duty you'll do as I tell you," Sirc replied, "No more drinking. That's an order."  
  
"Look, Toby, just gimme some sort of anti-. detoxifier or whatever," Van Menzies collapsed onto a chair, gripping his temples. "Physician, heal thy. patient."  
  
"I'm really disgusted this time, Art," Sirc told him, as he returned to his bedroom, and shouted out, "You should know better at your age. And in your position-"  
  
"I know. I know."  
  
Tobriad re-entered the living room, medical case in hand. He placed it on the table and opened it.  
  
"It's just," Van Menzies began, "I'm fifty-two."  
  
"I'm thirty-five. Get over it."  
  
"Fifty-two! Fifty-two! What am I to do?" Van Menzies demanded.  
  
"Well, maybe you could move to Bajor, Art. Become a monk or something."  
  
"No, really?"  
  
"You could start by cutting down on the drink."  
  
"It's only been twice in the last month, Tobe. I don't have the time to be drinking," Van Menzies said, "Nobody does. This goddamn war. it's stripping me of my humanity. my right to drink. my right to be a. what are they called?"  
  
"What are what called?"  
  
"You know. what they used to call them. alcoholics?"  
  
"Alcoholics." Sirc pumped a shot into the base of Van Menzies neck. "You know, Art, I think you're eighty years too late to be behaving like this. You're an anachronism. No Star Fleet officer acts like you do. Not now, anyway. Maybe sixty, eighty years ago, it would have been tolerated. It was expected. But we're at war, and as you said yourself, you don't have time to be drinking. So stick to the synthahol. You're fifty-two. Start acting your age."  
  
"For an empath, you can be pretty cold, doctor."  
  
"It's part of the job to be clinical and objective, Art."  
  
"That feels much better," Van Menzies told him, rubbing the back of his head as he stood up, "I feel much better. Thank you."  
  
"That's your last chance, Art. No more quick-fix hangover cures. Next time, you're on your own."  
  
  
  
  
  
The doorbell chimed once, and Van Menzies stormed into his first officer's quarters, in his dress uniform.  
  
"Phelps!" he called, a little panicked, "Phelps!"  
  
Leroy Phelps emerged from his bedroom in his underwear, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes.  
  
"Cap'n," Phelps said.  
  
"Where's the padd, Phelps?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"Cap'n. what time is it?" Phelps asked.  
  
"Six-thirty two. Where's the padd?"  
  
"Padd?" Phelps was still only half-conscious. "Captain, it's only six- thirty-two, I need my sleep, I didn't get to bed until three."  
  
"Where's the padd? Wake up, commander!" Van Menzies moved towards Phelps, slapped him lightly on the face.  
  
"I'm awake! I'm awake!" Phelps protested, stepping back in retreat.  
  
"Where's the padd?" Van Menzies asked for the fourth time.  
  
"Which padd?" Leroy asked.  
  
"The Tagmaari padd! I haven't even looked at it yet." Van Menzies's eyes darted around the room frantically.  
  
"The Tagmaari padd?" Phelps's expression turned from half-asleep to alarmed and worried. "The padd with all the information about the Tagmaari. the one I gave you yesterday, on the bridge, with the co-ordinates and all the information on their cultural and social habits." Van Menzies saw his first officer's expression of worry, and he himself became more panicked as a result. "What did you do with the padd, Leroy?"  
  
Phelps shook his head forlornly.  
  
"Please don't tell me you wiped the padd. don't. please don't, Leroy."  
  
Phelps shrugged his shoulders.  
  
"I was filling out the astrometrics duty roster for today," he began.  
  
"Please tell me you downloaded the data into the computer before you deleted it," Van Menzies begged, his hands bound tightly in front of him as if in prayer.  
  
Phelps again shrugged helplessly.  
  
"I thought you'd read it," he said, and then, "I'm sorry, Art."  
  
"Don't 'Art' me, Leroy. This is no time for 'Art'."  
  
"No, sir. Sorry, sir. We'll just contact Deep Space Four, tell them to send the information again."  
  
"No, no, no," Van Menzies said, "We're meeting the Tagmaari in an hour and a half, Leroy. If Star Fleet Command find out I haven't even looked at the padd yet." Van Menzies's expression was that of a naughty and frightened schoolchild. Phelps sucked in his cheeks and clamped down on them with his teeth to stop himself from laughing. Van Menzies looked into his first officer's eyes, hope replacing fear.  
  
"I don't suppose you read the padd?" he asked.  
  
Phelps lowered his eyes to the floor, face fraught in concentration, trying to recall something, anything. "The first thing I saw was the heading. 'Tagmaaros', it said. Then the co-ordinates. to the star system."  
  
"Yes, commander, go on," Van Menzies encouraged.  
  
".Then. the. it's the fourth planet in the system."  
  
"Come on, Phelps, come on."  
  
"Then there was a sub-heading."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
".And I think it was. 'Echolocation'?"  
  
"'Echolocation'?" Van Menzies and Phelps both looked at each other in confusion.  
  
"That's all I remember, sir," Phelps said.  
  
  
  
  
  
It was 0800H. Captain Van Menzies, Lieutenant Commander Phelps, Doctor Tobriad, Lieutenant Bernstein, Lieutenant Derek and Lieutenant Commander Dhara Nessil stood in the transporter room, all in their dress uniforms, Transporter Chief Gilson behind the console, everyone waiting.  
  
A message from Ensign Udigawa on the bridge was piped into the room with a preceding bleep.  
  
"The Tagmaari Ambassador and his entourage are ready to be beamed up, captain," Udigawa informed the group, and the knot in Van Menzies's stomach tightened considerably as he said "Acknowledged."  
  
He turned to Gilson, looked at him for a moment before giving the order to "Energise."  
  
Gilson placed three fingers on the console, began to move his hand up the keys and three forms slowly began to materialise on the transporter pad.  
  
  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Gul Barram was having something of a parental crisis, and his second bottle of fifty-year-old vintage k'narr, in his quarters onboard the prototype Alternat-Class Dominion warship. Barram was a good soldier, one of the best, and an excellent disciplinarian of those whom he commanded. He enjoyed his position in the Cardassian military and all the benefits that went with it. But he felt empty for some reason and he didn't quite know why.  
  
Since childhood, his son Teris had always opposed him politically. Barram had always been a conservative, his son was a liberal. Barram had run the Lunar Four mining camp during the occupation of Bajor. His son, eight years old at the time of the event, had been walking through the camp one day when a Bajoran boy of about the same age spat at him. Teris had retaliated with his feet, kicking the Bajoran boy twice in the head. The subsequent cerebral haemorrhaging resulted in the Bajoran boy's death, and Barram had been proud. Proud that his son did not take well to being treated like an inferior creature by the dysfunctional product of a second class culture of priests and poets. The boy's death served as a warning to all the Bajoran labourers and their families; even the administrator's child could defend himself with the same merciless hand with which his father oversaw their work.  
  
Teris had been a lively child until that episode in his young life, proud to be a Cardassian, proud to be a member of a superior race. But he made a mistake. He apologised to the boy's parents, saw their sorrow, and he wept at the boy's funeral. He acknowledged that the boy's death had been an accident, admitted that he had not intended to kill the child. Teris's actions of self-defence had transformed him into a thinker. A little eight- year-old thinker. A carer of non-Cardassians. A liberal. Before the altercation, Teris had taken his father's side in everything. After it, when Barram had praised his son, his son's response was  
  
"But father, killing is wrong, even if it was only a Bajoran."  
  
Barram had laughed, chided his son for his foolish innocence, little appreciating that the little non-Cardassian's death had transformed his son. A petty act of child's play had altered Teris. And Barram saw the change, presumed it was just a phase, and ten years later, his son was a liberal. Full of false propaganda and rhetoric.  
  
"If Cardassians are so great, why is it that Federation technology is superior?" he would ask.  
  
And  
  
"The occupation of Bajor was an atrocity, a crime against a people who deserve better."  
  
And  
  
"If you, father, take pride in being Cardassian, I am no Cardassian."  
  
The last one hurt the most. Barram could have had his son arrested for it, but instead he threw him out of the house.  
  
Two weeks ago, Teris had been kidnapped on Cardassia Prime by an underground movement which opposed the Cardassian-Dominion alliance. Barram had laughed when he heard the news; there was no love lost if Teris was killed. The love had left their relationship a long time ago. Barram had not loved his son for some eight years, since the massacre at the mining camp. He had had to steel himself when Teris had informed him that he could not forgive him for it, that he hated him. That he despised him. And Barram had actually cried himself to sleep that night, on the way home to Cardassia at high warp. But he was fine the following day. And now he felt nothing for his son. Nothing at all. The kidnapping had probably been planned by Teris himself. And Barram laughed to himself as he drank his k'narr, laughed at his own thoughts. Why was he thinking of Teris at all? Then he thought about his wife, Teris's mother, and all the hurt Teris had caused her, and the indifference he felt for his son turned into disgust.  
  
So he put Teris out of his thoughts altogether, and remembered his last visit to Terok Nor, when the station had been re-taken, only a handful of months before, when morale had been at its highest, and when he, Gul Barram, had forced himself on the young Dabo girl from the Ferengi's gambling emporium. He had not felt empty then. It had been just like the old days, ten, fifteen years before, when if you saw someone you liked you could have them. Then he thought about the Ferengi engineer, Rog or Mor, he couldn't remember his name, the one who had ruined plans of Dominion invasion with his self-replicating mines at the mouth of the wormhole. And when the order came to evacuate the station, the odious Ferengi had been in a holding cell, and Gul Barram remembered passing by the station security office, and he had considered going in there and killing the verminous vole with a disruptor blast. But Gul Barram had felt that he had not enough time, and he cursed himself now for not killing the animal in his cell, and the Ferengi angered him, just thinking about him, his obsequious expression masking his duplicity, and Gul Barram felt angered again, if only now because he could think of nothing without being filled with rage. Rage at all the opportunities he missed, everything he had not done in his life that could have improved his lot, not that his lot was anything to be ashamed of.  
  
The doorbell bleeped.  
  
"Yes?" he hissed, and the Vorta's voice came in over the intercom.  
  
"Gul Barram? Might I come in?" he asked, politely, and then without waiting for an answer, Tyron of the Vorta entered the gul's quarters, an ornate drug dispenser in his hands.  
  
"We've dropped out of warp," the Dominion diplomat informed Barram, "We're ready to engage the tetryon emitters."  
  
"How far are we from Federation space?" Barram slurred.  
  
"You've been drinking," Tyron noted.  
  
"Only a little," Barram said, "How far are we from Federation territory?"  
  
"A mere four light years," Tyron replied, a note of loathing in his voice. He was disgusted by Gul Barram's heavy drinking. He had been informed by Weyoun earlier that month that he would not be commandeering the Dominion prototype warship operation; that distinction would fall to Gul Barram, the Cardassian to whom Tyron seemed to be playing second fiddle an awful lot lately. The vessel had been built thanks to Dominion technology, with Dominion materials; by a Dominion workforce, using Dominion resources. And yet here was Tyron, serving under a Cardassian. Not just a Cardassian, but a Cardassian drunkard. Tyron was himself reduced to nothing more than a petty drug peddler, a distributor of ketrocel-white for the Jem'Hadar crew under his immediate command. Barram told Tyron what to do, Tyron told the Jem'Hadar First what to do, and the Jem'Hadar First told his men what to do. And it sickened Tyron to have to report to Barram. He had discussed it with Weyoun, told him he could barely tolerate the Cardassian; Weyoun had told him that the alliance with the Cardassians "must appear to have a semblance of equality."  
  
The doorbell bleeped again.  
  
"Come in," Barram shouted, and the Jem'Hadar First entered, turned immediately to Tyron.  
  
"It is time for our white," was all he said, anticipating the glint in Tyron's eye and hating the Vorta for it.  
  
"You will get your white when this vessel goes through the window," Tyron told the First, a glint appearing in his eye. ` Barram clambered off the chaise-longue on which he had been reclining and awkwardly got to his feet.  
  
"Is the emitter ready?" the gul asked the First.  
  
"The tetryon emitter is fully operational and charged," the Jem'Hadar soldier answered, his hate-filled eyes not leaving those of the Vorta. Tyron lived for those looks of hatred from the men under his command. He relished the notion that he could control those who hated him with a passion, and he in turn controlled them with a passion which incurred as much hatred as he could generate from them.  
  
"Good," Barram declared in response to the soldier's answer. The Cardassian smiled, looked at each man in turn in an attempt to diminish the animosity between them. "Good. We'll all go to the bridge." He wrapped one arm around the Vorta's shoulders, wrapped the other around the Jem'Hadar warmly.  
  
"Bridge?" the Jem'Hadar asked.  
  
"Bridge. we'll all go to the bridge," Barram repeated, endeavouring to sound soberer than he was, and drew the two men out of his quarters and onto the corridor. Tyron was infuriated by Barram's attempts to disarm the Jem'Hadar's hatred; yet another reason to dislike the Cardassian.  
  
Five minutes later the three men were standing on the bridge, Teris and the First wearing visors, Gul Barram watching on the viewscreen as a huge artificial hole in subspace opened before them because of a tetryon beam emanating from a large cannon which protruded from the belly of the huge Dominion Alternat class warship.  
  
"The window in subspace has exceeded the required girth," the Jem'Hadar soldier standing at the conn declared.  
  
"Take us through it, one quarter impulse speed," was Gul Barram's almost inaudible response, distracted as he was by the beauty of the event being displayed on the vast viewscreen.  
  
"Moving ahead one quarter impulse."  
  
"Passing through the window."  
  
"We have just entered Dimension Two, sir."  
  
"Closing subspace window now."  
  
The prototype vessel moved from one dimension into another and the tetryon emitter ceased its bombardment of subspace; the rift closed seamlessly; the Alternat-class vessel crawled into its new universe with trepidation and reports once again began coming from the soldiers at their various stations on the bridge.  
  
"Sensors have located the nearest star system. six light years from here."  
  
"It seems this universe differs greatly from Dimension One."  
  
"Transdimensional sensors are online and fully operational."  
  
"Transdimensional transporters online. fully operational."  
  
"Transdimensional encrypted communications system operating."  
  
Gul Barram smiled.  
  
"Send word of our success to Cardassia Prime at once," he said.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Tyron opened the ketrocel-white dispenser and handed a number of vials to the First.  
  
"We pledge our obedience to the Founders," the First began.  
  
"Yes, yes," Tyron waved the First away with a peremptory but dismissive flick of the wrist, and the Jem'Hadar left his side with a look of loathing.  
  
The Jem'Hadar standing at the transdimensional sensor station made the point that  
  
"We are picking up the Bolian freighter in Dimension One on long range sensors now, sir. Moving at warp five point three, heading D-One mark two- seven-one mark three-four."  
  
"Get us into transporter range," Gul Barram ordered, "And prepare, as we may now euphemistically say, to decloak."  
  
*  
  
Twenty minutes later, Captain Mol of the Bolian freighter Dyphtha sat in his chair on the bridge of his ship sipping his afternoon cup of Tarkalean tea when his helmsman informed him that there was a starship-sized tetryon cloud heading towards them at high warp.  
  
"Tetryon?" Mol repeated.  
  
"Yessir. Tetryon."  
  
Mol turned to his chief engineer, an Elorean named Vaaltan.  
  
"What do you make of this, Vaaltan? Some sort of a cloaked ship?"  
  
Vaaltan shrugged his shoulders and smiled inanely.  
  
"I have never known a cloaked vessel to emit tetryon particles, captain."  
  
"And yet this cloud is artificial. it is travelling at warp speed."  
  
"Yes. It must be artificial because it is travelling at warp speed."  
  
"So what could it be, Vaaltan?"  
  
"I do not know, Captain. But I recommend we slow to impulse and give the phenomenon further study."  
  
"Vaaltan, this is a commercial freighter, not a science vessel."  
  
"Still, sir, it might be worth taking a look at."  
  
"Drop out of warp," Mol ordered finally.  
  
"The cloud is still moving towards us, sir," the helmsman said a moment later.  
  
"What can it be?" Mol asked aloud.  
  
"Perhaps it's my ticket out of this hellish quadrant," Vaaltan finally answered.  
  
"Excuse me?" Captain Mol asked, taken aback.  
  
"This quadrant has caused me so much pain ever since I arrived in it five hundred years ago," Vaaltan dropped his eyes to the bridge floor, and raised them again to the captain's face with a grin. "I am tired of it all, captain. So tired. And the Dominion pays me so much better than the Federation."  
  
"Vaaltan, what's wrong with you?" Mol asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Transdimensional sensors are picking up twenty-seven Bolian life signs on board the Bolian freighter. four Andorrans. two humans. and one Elorean on the bridge of the freighter," declared one of the Jem'Hadar soldiers.  
  
"I have achieved an interdimensional transporter lock on the Elorean life form," a second soldier reported.  
  
"Well," Gul Barram said, "Beam the Elorean life form on board. directly to this bridge."  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
A bright green transporter beam appeared around Vaaltan and a moment later he dematerialised.  
  
"Captain," the Bolian at the conn addressed Mol. "The tetryon particles have. formed some sort of a rupture in subspace. There's a ship coming through the rupture, sir. it's. I'm. oh, no."  
  
"What is it, Tok?" Captain Mol demanded to know.  
  
"Sir. I believe the design is. I think it's Dominion, sir."  
  
Captain Mol got out of his seat, watched the viewscreen in disbelief.  
  
"Turn us around. Move away from the vessel. get us out of here. go to warp."  
  
The Bolian vessel shuddered.  
  
"The. Dominion. warship has us in a tractor beam, captain."  
  
  
  
  
  
The Dominion warship held the now dwarfed ship in its vast tractor beam as it pumped a spread of fourteen quantum torpedoes into the Bolian freighter, six ion cannons and four phaser batteries in its starboard side also blazing into the unprotected hull of the other ship, which moments later erupted in a ball of flame, before disintegrating into shards of twisted metal, crackling electronics, isolinear circuitry and tiny molecular particles.  
  
  
  
  
  
Gul Barram turned to Vaaltan, who had just materialised on the bridge of the Dominion warship, extending his hand in friendship.  
  
"Welcome to the Afterlife, Professor Vaaltan," the Cardassian said.  
  
Vaaltan took the gul's arm as a formality, before reproaching him.  
  
"The Bolians picked up a tetryon cloud long before the subspace window opened. The cloaking mechanism is obviously malfunctioning; a cloak is not a cloak unless it cloaks."  
  
The Vorta beside the gul smiled amicably.  
  
"I'm afraid, Professor, that we followed your specs to the letter. The tetryon cloud is an epiphenomenon which you shall have to take care of yourself."  
  
"All right. I will. Just get us back into the alternate dimension so that I can work on the problem."  
  
Again, Tyron smiled.  
  
"There is a more pressing matter to attend to, Professor. There's a Federation starship orbiting a planet two and a half light years from here which we have decided to destroy."  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Three huge forms materialised in the transporter room of the Lovelock. Van Menzies waited for them to fully appear, took in the features common to all three. They were of a uniform height, about two meters tall, fur surrounding otherwise clear faces, their ears vast, long and pointed, stretching thirty centimeters above their heads. Their noses were large, consisting of a single gaping cavity which opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and closed. Their eyes, a pair, above the noses, one on either side of the breathing organ, were by comparison tiny, consisting of single pupils deeply set in their heads. The single, lipless mouth below the nose was marked on either side of it by a tiny fang, save for the alien to the left of the centre one, whose right fang appeared to be missing. They were wearing what Van Menzies would have described as togas, brown- black in colour, seemingly to match the colour of their fur.  
  
"On behalf of the United Federation of Planets," Van Menzies began, addressing himself to the centre form, "I, Captain Art Van Menzies, extend my greetings, and welcome you onboard the U.S.S. Lovelock." Van Menzies turned awkwardly to his senior staff, pointing at each of them in turn. "This is my first officer, Leroy Phelps; my chief medical officer, Sirc Tobriad; my chief of security, Irving Bernstein; my chief engineer, Mr. Derek; and my science officer, Miss Dhara Nessil." Van Menzies took a single step toward the centre being, who held in its hands what seemed to be a drink of some sort, transparent turquoise in colour, contained in a large glass cylindrical jar. Van Menzies extended his arms warmly. There was silence from the three Tagmaari beings, who remained absolutely still on the transporter pads.  
  
"Welcome, welcome," Van Menzies repeated, taking another step forward, just short of the step onto the transporter proper.  
  
Finally, the three aliens opened their mouths in unison and emitted a long, ululating, high-pitched scream. Van Menzies stepped back, held his ears in fright, doubled over as his senior staff recoiled in a similar manner, Bernstein drew his hand-phaser, aimed it quickly at the Tagmaari delegates, and then the screaming stopped, the senior staff attempted to regain their composure, slowly, Bernstein hid his phaser in his uniform once more, still cautious, as the central alien promptly said "We did not mean to alarm you, Captain! We thought you were aware of the fact that our poor eyesight necessitates that we see the world by means of sonar!"  
  
There was a moment of silence before Van Menzies and Phelps declared together in realisation "Ah. Echolocation."  
  
"Yes, indeed, Captain, echolocation," the central figure stepped forward, introduced herself, "I am Ambassador Traklannia of the Tagmaari Homeworld, this is my husband, Premier Advisor to the esteemed Chancellor, Treklennia, and this is our son, Premier Administrator of Domestic Affairs, Troklonnio."  
  
"It is an honour to meet the three of you," Van Menzies said, as the Ambassador thrust the jar of liquid into Van Menzies's hands, stepping down off the transporter pad, and bowed down before him.  
  
"Oh, please," Van Menzies said, quickly, "There's no need for that kind of deference..."  
  
The Ambassador continued to readjust her sandals, her husband and son followed her down off the transporter pad, readjusted their own footwear, and removed the sandals from their feet altogether. "You will bathe our feet as is the traditional Tagmaari custom?" the Ambassador demanded to know. "Of course," Van Menzies smiled diplomatically, looking curiously at the jar of liquid, wondering if it was alcoholic. He unscrewed the lid, put his nose to the brim, inhaled.  
  
"We have learned from our evolutionary scientists that our ancestors used urine to mark out their territory. Thus I extend our, what is it you say?.hand of friendship with this container of urine", she pointed at the jar in Van Menzies's hands, "from the body of His Eminence, my cousin, Chancellor Zerelliek, esteemed leader of our united world. Our home is your home, and your home, ours."  
  
Van Menzies turned to Phelps as he carefully screwed the lid back onto the jar.  
  
"Eh. get me a little foot. eh. a little foot bath, would you Leroy.? .with warm water. and maybe a bar of soap. Actually, you'd better get three. three foot baths. we'll wash their feet together. You, me and. Derek."  
  
"Aye, aye, cap'n."  
  
  
  
  
  
An hour later, the three Tagmaari delegates and the six senior officers emerged from the transporter room, walking down the corridor towards the turbolift, the three clean-footed aliens screeching happily, Van Menzies and Phelps bringing up the rear.  
  
"You know, Leroy," Van Menzies whispered to his first officer, "I feel like I've just had the piss taken out of me, and yet here I am holding a jar of the stuff."  
  
Traklannia, a few meters ahead of Van Menzies, stopped in her tracks, the other Tagmaari following suit.  
  
"What is this 'taking the piss' of which you speak?" she asked Van Menzies directly as she turned around to face him. The senior officers of the Lovelock stopped suddenly, out of fright as much as anything else, each of them wondering what their captain's response would be, Bernstein and Sirc Tobriad smiling at each other with schadenfreude obvious on their faces.  
  
"It's an old human expression, Ambassador. Our species too used to. mark out territory. with piss. or. urine," Van Menzies began explaining awkwardly.  
  
"Interesting. Our studies of your culture told us nothing of that fact."  
  
"It's kind of a sore point," Bernstein put in.  
  
"We like to keep it to ourselves," Van Menzies added, "And the commander was simply remarking that maybe I too should give you a container of my urine in exchange for the wonderful gift which your esteemed Chancellor has awarded us."  
  
"A gift like that would be a welcome one indeed. And one really should not be ashamed of one's ancestral history. Piss has become a symbol, one of the keystones, of our united world," she said.  
  
Crisis averted, Captain Van Menzies smiled.  
  
"It's very humbling to know that one culture's waste is another culture's symbol of unity," he said.  
  
"Why?" the Ambassador asked.  
  
"Why what?" Van Menzies blinked in fear because he could see what was coming and he didn't have an answer.  
  
"Why is knowing this humbling?"  
  
"Have you seen our holodeck, Ambassador? It's really quite incredible."  
  
"I have heard of this holodeck. It interests me very much."  
  
"I'm sure we can arrange a tour of the entire ship this evening," Van Menzies smiled. He paused at the turbolift doors. "Lieutenant Bernstein and Lieutenant Commander Nessil shall accompany you to your quarters on deck four."  
  
"Thank you, captain," Traklannia said, before following Dhara Nessil and Irving Bernstein into the turbolift.  
  
"Ambassador," Van Menzies responded courteously.  
  
"Thank you," Treklennia said, and followed his wife in.  
  
"Premier Advisor to the Esteemed Chancellor," Van Menzies said, nodding.  
  
"Thank you," Troklonnio said.  
  
"Premier Administrator of Home Affairs."  
  
"Domestic Affairs," Troklonnio corrected.  
  
"Domestic Affairs, excuse me," Van Menzies said. "By the way, the meal which you're going to prepare for us this afternoon, Ambassador."  
  
"Yes, captain?"  
  
"I've allocated the Captain's galley for that very purpose."  
  
"That is very generous, captain. The chef and his staff are ready and waiting to have their matter transformed into energy and back into matter again. Dinner shall be served at. fourteen hundred of your hours clock."  
  
The turbolift doors hissed shut, and Van Menzies sighed with relief.  
  
"Well handled, cap'n," Leroy said to him, "But how are you going to explain the made-up evolutionary history to Star Fleet Command?"  
  
"Ah, I'm not that worried about it," Van Menzies replied, looking at the container of urine in his hands, "I'm sure we were smelling each other's pee somewhere along the line."  
  
  
  
  
  
It was 1400H. Twenty-five Tagmaari delegates and an equal number of Star Fleet officers stood around in the Captain's Galley, chatting amicably, interspersed with the occasional sight endowing screech which the Tagmaaris were diplomatically keeping to a minimum.  
  
Van Menzies and Phelps were discussing politics with Troklonnio when a twenty-sixth Tagmaari came through the doors, carrying a large, black, infundibular, hollow artefact. The Tagmaari delegates began screeching joyfully and booing and hissing.  
  
"What's going on?" Van Menzies asked Troklonnio, as the Tagmaari approached with the work of art and presented it without a word to Van Menzies. "What's this? Why are they booing?"  
  
"They are happy and excited, Captain," Troklonnio explained, "You are to be presented with the Verauallennio'Tristackalleerarum."  
  
"Sounds kind of Latin," Van Menzies said, looking at the artefact in his hands.  
  
"It is an ancient and prized work of art on our homeworld."  
  
"Wow," Phelps gushed, "You must be flattered, cap'n."  
  
"I am. I am," Van Menzies said, and he told the newly arrived delegate, "Thank you, thank you so very much." Van Menzies realised all eyes were on him. He looked at the artefact, looked up, looked back at the artefact, shook his head in gratitude, and repeated "Thank you."  
  
"Aren't you going to look at it?" Troklonnio asked.  
  
Van Menzies looked at the rather bland object, smiled, said, "Really, I'm overcome."  
  
"No, captain," Troklonnio said, "Put it on your head."  
  
"Oh." Van Menzies raised it over his head, slipped it on, and saw pitch darkness as the Tagmaari all shouted "Booo! Sssss! Boooo!"  
  
Van Menzies kept the helmet on for a few moments until the applause subsided, waved blindly to everyone and Troklonnio said  
  
"You must use echolocation in order to appreciate it on as many levels as we do."  
  
"I'm sure I do," Van Menzies's muffled voice could be heard from beneath the masterpiece, "I'm sure it's wonderful. wonderful," and he finally removed the object from his head, glanced over at the kitchen where the four Tagmaari chefs were concocting the redolent meal.  
  
"The buffet meal should be served within the next twenty minutes, captain," Troklonnio said, a note of apology in his voice.  
  
"The anticipation is a pleasure in itself, Administrator," Van Menzies said.  
  
The Tagmaari's eyes twinkled and he smiled as he said  
  
"We have an expression on our homeworld: 'Pleasuring the females is an end in itself'."  
  
Phelps and Van Menzies chuckled.  
  
"Now if you'll excuse me, I must prompt the cooks to quicken the pace," the administrator said. " Oh, there's no hurry," Van Menzies said as his stomach rumbled loudly.  
  
The Tagmaari administrator made his way towards the culinary team in the kitchen, and Phelps drew close to his superior's ear.  
  
"The 'pleasing the females' thing. that was about sex, right?"  
  
Van Menzies shrugged his shoulders.  
  
"I hope so, commander, I hope so."  
  
Ensign Lance Udigawa was on the other side of the room, talking with Ambassador Traklannia.  
  
"Your vessel's technology astounds me," the ambassador was saying, "I took a look at the specs this afternoon, and really, for a vessel of this size to be capable of landing on a planet-"  
  
"It is really rather impressive, isn't it?" Udigawa replied, "The Lovelock is a Terrestrial class ship, the one and only of its kind. It was designed primarily for scientific research, the study of planets, and served as the prototype for the Intrepid class starships. now that we're at war with the Dominion, she's undergone something of a refit. Improvements in weapons and shielding, that kind of thing."  
  
"You can never be too careful," Traklannia said, "when at war with a dangerous enemy."  
  
The intercom bleeped, and Dhara Nessil, chief science officer of the Lovelock, could be heard saying "Captain Van Menzies, would it be possible for you to come to the bridge?"  
  
"What's going on?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
Dhara Nessil paused before replying "I'd like you to come up and see this yourself, captain."  
  
"Can't it wait? .I'm kind of busy right now."  
  
"This is urgent." Nessil's voice was curt.  
  
Van Menzies sighed before replying "I'll be there in a moment." He exchanged glances with Phelps, who said "Isn't Dhara on the nightshift?"  
  
"She's supposed to be," the captain said, "Somebody must have called her to the bridge earlier." He began striding towards the doors, which hissed open when he reached them, Phelps keeping up with him.  
  
"You want me to come with you?" he asked the captain, whose response was  
  
"No, Leroy, stay here and entertain the guests." He handed Phelps the Tagmaari artefact as he entered the turbolift.  
  
"Yes sir." Leroy re-entered the galley, nodded at Bernstein who stood guarding the door, Bernstein acknowledged the nod with a wink, and Phelps then moved over to the ambassador, who held a bowl in her hands piled with what looked to Phelps like some kind of turquoise pasta.  
  
"The captain has been called away for a few minutes," the first officer apologised, "He will be back as soon as he can."  
  
The ambassador leered at Phelps, who interpreted it as the Tagmaari way of smiling, whereupon the ambassador thrust the bowl into Phelps's hands.  
  
"Try it," the ambassador insisted.  
  
Phelps looked at the bowl, wondered for a moment if the Tagmaari used utensils when eating, dismissed the idea, took a slither of the food in his fingers and sucked it into his mouth. Tentatively, he started chewing, curious at first, eventually he was relieved by the familiar texture and flavour.  
  
"Tastes like chicken," he declared.  
  
Van Menzies had ordered the turbolift to "Deck one" before he tapped his communicator. "Van Menzies to Nessil. What's going on, commander?"  
  
There was no response from the communication and Van Menzies reproachfully commanded her to "Answer me, commander." The turbolift doors hissed open, Van Menzies stepped onto the bridge which was empty except for the presence of Lieutenant Commander Dhara Nessil, dressed in a grey vest and matching shorts, her long hair draping down her back, standing at her usual post at the science station, and the Klingon, Corporal Karg, who was sitting at the conn.  
  
"Where is everyone?" Van Menzies demanded to know.  
  
Dhara Nessil turned to her commanding officer, gave him a mock salute.  
  
"They're at the party," she said.  
  
"I didn't realise so many officers were in the galley," Van Menzies said.  
  
"Some of them are on the holodeck," Nessil added quickly, "A lot of the Tagmaari delegation are infatuated by holotechnology-"  
  
"All right, commander, all right. So why did you drag me up here?"  
  
"Corporal Karg-" Nessil began, and the Klingon got up from his seat and moved towards Van Menzies and Nessil "-was running a standard sensor sweep and he came across this," she pointed at the screen before her as Karg said "It's a tetryon field of some kind and it's maintaining speed and the same orbit around Tagmaaros as we are."  
  
Van Menzies looked at the Klingon. He didn't like him, but he couldn't remember why.  
  
"I've been studying the telemetry," Dhara said, "And it's certainly not a natural phenomenon."  
  
Van Menzies watched the screen in silence for a moment.  
  
"You're sure?" he asked.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You're sure it's not natural, Commander?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure," Dhara replied, her eyes shifting from Van Menzies to the screen and back to Van Menzies.  
  
"So, what? You think we could be looking at a cloaked vessel of some kind?"  
  
Dhara looked at the screen again, slowly shook her head, and answered "I don't know, sir."  
  
"The cloaking technology is neither Romulan nor Klingon," Karg put in, "It is a technology unfamiliar to us."  
  
Van Menzies continued watching the screen as Dhara added "Our most active scans, including the anti-proton pulse, show nothing. from what I can see, there's no cloaked ship out there."  
  
"The Tagmaari aren't advanced enough to have cloaking technology," Van Menzies sighed. He could feel his headache returning. "So we'll have to. I really don't want to have call a senior staff meeting because of some crappy phantom field chasing us around a planet."  
  
Karg bared his teeth, grimaced at the captain.  
  
"We are at war," he pointed out, disgustedly.  
  
"The Dominion don't use cloaking technology," Van Menzies replied, "Not on their ships, anyway."  
  
"How do you know," Karg asked, "when the Dominion ships which pass by your hull are cloaked?"  
  
Van Menzies had no desire to mess up a delicate diplomatic mission because of the slimmest possibility of a Dominion ship sitting in wait for the Lovelock. it was irrational to him and would not look good on his already questionable record.  
  
"Raise the shields," he said finally. "Fire a low energy phaser burst into that field. If we hit anything we'll know there's something out there. And move the ship around a little. see if it follows us. It could be anything. I'm not willing to bring the mission to an end because of this."  
  
"We are at war," Karg repeated.  
  
Van Menzies looked into the eyes of Dhara Nessil, and his chief science officer saw the look of determination and trust in himself and his crew manifest itself in his expression that she had only seen once before, three months before to be exact, when the Lovelock had come under attack from three Jem'Hadar fighters. That look had removed all doubts from Dhara's mind about her superior's fitness as a command officer in Star Fleet. She had seen the look only twice in the three years she had spent under his leadership, and when she saw it she felt shame for doubting Van Menzies's abilities. It was charisma, of course, she saw it was charisma, but it was a sincere charisma; there was an honesty in that look that was not in keeping with Van Menzies's usual cynicism. She saw with that look that he had faith in her, and she in turn had faith in herself, a faith bestowed in her by her captain's trust.  
  
"I'm leaving you in charge of this, Commander," he said, "You have the bridge. Oh, and please put a uniform on. Replicate one or something."  
  
  
  
  
  
Ensign Burnett had just entered the galley when she was accosted by a smiling and screeching Tagmaari delegate.  
  
"Hello," he said.  
  
"Hello," Burnett returned the greeting with a smile.  
  
The Tagmaari smiled again and screeched, smiled, screeched, laughed, screeched again and padded the ensign's uniform with a lecherous hand.  
  
"Please. refrain from doing that," Burnett blushed, eventually pushed his arm away from her breast.  
  
"Why should I?" the Tagmaari beamed his teeth at her, grabbed her breasts with both his hands, and Burnett pushed him away more forcefully, moved away from him. "Excuse me," she said, striding towards the door, the delegate following her, screeching.  
  
Bernstein, who had been watching the proceedings, moved across and blocked the Tagmaari's path. The alien stopped before him, somewhat bewildered.  
  
"What are you doing?" the alien asked.  
  
"What are you doing?" was Bernstein's answer.  
  
"I am attempting to instigate sexual relations with the attractive female," the Tagmaari said, "And you are in my way." The alien took a step forward, but Bernstein did not flinch.  
  
"I don't believe Ensign Burnett has any intentions of sleeping with you," Bernstein said finally.  
  
"I do not wish to sleep with her," the Tagmaari replied, becoming frustrated, "I wish to engage in sex."  
  
"She doesn't like you," Bernstein said evenly, and the Tagmaari screeched and thrust a balled claw into Bernstein's head. The security officer responded with a jab to the alien's stomach, the delegate doubled over and Bernstein's knee instinctively shot up and connected with the Tagmaari's face. The delegate fell back onto the nearest table, knocking steaming bowls of stringed fowl onto the floor, following the food onto the floor himself with a thud. Two more screeching Tagmaari stepped forward to face Bernstein. Lieutenant Derek, sitting immediately behind one, got up from his seat and squeezed the alien's shoulder. The alien roared with laughter, broke wind loudly and crumpled before the Vulcan, unconscious. The second Tagmaari pushed Derek back onto the carpet and then lunged at Bernstein.  
  
"Stop this! Stop this at once!" the Tagmaari ambassador half-shrieked, half shouted.  
  
"Break it up!" Phelps ordered, as Ensign Burnett, feeling responsible for the whole incident, threw herself into the wrestling match, only to receive a stray elbow in the eye. She recoiled, clutching her face, retreated a couple of meters on hand and knees, as Bernstein sent three powerful punches into the Tagmaari's face, grabbed the alien by the snout, who immediately began to squeal in agony.  
  
  
  
  
  
Lieutenants Derek, Bernstein and Ensign Burnett (nursing a swollen and purple eye) stood in the captain's ready room, Van Menzies sitting behind his desk, giving a disappointed look to each of his officers, one after the next. Finally he spoke.  
  
"All right," he said, "What happened?"  
  
Burnett cleared her throat, replied, "One of the Tagmaari representatives cupped his hand and. fondled me, captain." Burnett's eyes began to moisten as she said the words.  
  
"Fondled you?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"I pushed his arm away, captain. But he persisted. So I moved away. and he followed me and Lieutenant Bernstein stepped between us."  
  
"That's when he hit me," Bernstein put in, "So I hit him back. He fell into a table and onto the floor and then another two Tagmaari. they approached, screeching at me-"  
  
"And I disabled one of them from behind, captain," Derek said.  
  
"With your Vulcan death pinch," Van Menzies said.  
  
"It's not a death pinch, captain," Derek protested.  
  
"I know that, Mr. Derek. You know that. But the Tagmaari delegation did not know that," Van Menzies sighed, began to rub his throbbing temples. "So a riot broke out in my galley because Burnett here objected to a lascivious alien touching her boob."  
  
"Of course I objected, sir-"  
  
"What is Star Fleet Directive oh-one-oh, ensign?" Van Menzies demanded to know.  
  
"Excuse me, sir?" Burnett was not too sure what the directive was, and for the first time regretted cheating in her first year exams at the Academy.  
  
"What is Star Fleet Directive zero-one-zero?"  
  
Burnett opened her mouth, stalled by clearing her throat, her eyes dropped to the floor and she blushed.  
  
"Ehhhm." she began, and all three officers now looked at her, waiting. "Ehhhm. Star Fleet Directive zero-one-zero," she said, "Before enemy confrontations. attempts must be made to avoid them."  
  
"Mr. Derek," Van Menzies prompted.  
  
"Before engaging alien species in battle, any and all attempts to make first contact and achieve non-military resolution must be made," Derek replied, "However, captain, I do not feel that that particular directive is applicable to this altercation-"  
  
"I don't care what you think, lieutenant," Van Menzies shot back, before returning his attention to Burnett. "The next time an alien touches you like that, you let him touch you like that, and you pretend to enjoy it. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Burnett sniffled, wiped a tear before it rolled down her cheek.  
  
"Sir," Derek began.  
  
"Don't start, Mr. Derek," the captain said, before muttering, "You're all dismissed."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Six  
  
It was 0200H. Derek escorted the sleepy Tagmaari Ambassador, and the last two members of her delegation on board the Lovelock, into the transporter room.  
  
"I am afraid," Derek was saying, "that the Federation does not tolerate the kind of sexual deviancy exemplified by your envoy."  
  
"I know, and I do apologise. as I was saying, the fondler, Nekrelliel, was the president of our south eastern continent up until two years ago, when he was found guilty of similar indiscretions, impeached and removed from office. I was certain he had reformed." The Ambassador, her husband and their son were escorted onto the transporter by Derek, who left their side and made his way to the station across the room.  
  
"If you would just let me plead with your captain," the Ambassador begged.  
  
"The captain has no desire to meet with you. He finds you all a disgusting, vile race of beings, as do I. Goodbye, Ambassador." Derek activated the transporter and the three Tagmaari disappeared.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It was 0900H. Art Van Menzies emerged from his ready room and entered onto the bridge, gave his usual "Good morning everyone"  
  
and the eight bridge officers replied with the usual  
  
"Good morning captain."  
  
Ensign Djanamar, sitting at the conn, usually gave the captain a beaming smile as he glanced over at her every morning. This morning, however, her eyes remained on the console in front of her; she did not look up.  
  
"Good morning ensign," Van Menzies said, prompting her to answer him with a smile. She ignored him. "Good morning, Ensign Djanamar," Van Menzies repeated loudly.  
  
Ensign Djanamar did not look up, simply muttering  
  
"Morning, Captain Van Menzies."  
  
Van Menzies understood, and a knot formed in his stomach. Djanamar and Burnett were close friends; Djanamar was angry with Van Menzies for his handling of the situation between Burnett and the Tagmaari. He wanted to apologise to the young officer for hurting her friend's feelings. He then dismissed the thought and as he sat down on the captain's chair the knot disappeared from his stomach.  
  
Dhara Nessil, from the science post on the bridge addressed the captain.  
  
"The tetryon field is still with us, captain, matching our geostationary orbit around Tagmaaros."  
  
Van Menzies sighed.  
  
"Bully for the tetryon field," he said.  
  
Lieutenant Derek stepped onto the bridge from the turbolift.  
  
"Good morning, Derek," Van Menzies greeted the Vulcan.  
  
Derek descended the small staircase, moved into the centre of the bridge, turned to face his captain. The Vulcan's eyes stared off into the distance. He was not looking at Van Menzies and he stood rigidly before the bridge staff.  
  
"At ease, lieutenant," Van Menzies exhorted, but Derek ignored him.  
  
"At approximately 0200 hours this morning, I escorted all of the Tagmaari delegates off the ship, explaining to each of them that the Federation does not tolerate the fondling of its representatives," Derek said curtly.  
  
"Excuse me?" Van Menzies asked incredulously.  
  
"At 0200 hours I removed the Tagmaari from the ship-"  
  
"Yes. Yes. I heard you the first time," Van Menzies cut him off, raised his voice slightly as he said, "Computer, please locate the Tagmaari ambassador and her party."  
  
The computer bleeped and replied,  
  
"The Tagmaari party is no longer on the ship."  
  
With this confirmation, Van Menzies turned to Derek, his eyebrows forming a frown to match the Vulcan's.  
  
"Derek," Van Menzies began at last. "Are you out of your Vulcan mind?"  
  
Crewman Gates, sitting at the engineering station with Ensign Gilson standing above her, turned to Gilson with a surprised look on her face.  
  
"Did the captain just say 'fuckin''?" she asked Gilson in a whisper.  
  
"No. No," Gilson replied, "I think he said 'Vulcan'."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Derek responded with an uncertain  
  
"I assure you, captain, that I am of sound mental health."  
  
Van Menzies was flustered.  
  
"This." he said, "This. is. insubordination."  
  
"Yes, sir," Derek agreed, "And I hereby resign my commission from Star Fleet, and will face any charges brought against me in due time."  
  
There was silence on the bridge.  
  
"Why did you do it?" the captain asked.  
  
"In the hope that the shit would hit the fan, captain," Derek said.  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"I have spent less than two days aboard your ship. In that time, I have seen that you display a patent disrespect for the cultures of the crew under your command, including your own. According to one source, you became highly intoxicated in your quarters, on your own, the night before last. Your behaviour is atypical of a senior officer in Star Fleet; you are, in my view, unsuited to command a Federation vessel, and your insensitivity towards Ensign Burnett's feelings necessitated that I take actions to ensure that Star Fleet Command becomes aware of your incompetence as the commander of one of its starships."  
  
"So you scuppered this mission in order to show that I'm. inept?"  
  
"As a captain, yes."  
  
"You tarnished your own record, ruined a promising career, so that I would look bad?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Van Menzies got to his feet, nodded towards the door to his ready room.  
  
"Please step into my office."  
  
The two men strode into the ready room, the door closed behind them, and the captain turned to face the rebellious officer.  
  
"All right, Mister Derek, what's the deal?"  
  
Derek considered the question before answering  
  
"There is no deal, captain."  
  
"Your Star Fleet record shows that you requested and received a leave of absence after serving on board the Enterprise for seven months."  
  
"I attempted to resign my commission. I was given a leave of absence."  
  
"And may I ask why you wanted to resign from Star Fleet?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
Derek flashed Van Menzies a glare that the captain perceived as being one of mild annoyance.  
  
"That is none of your business," he said.  
  
"It's my business if what's going on inside of your head is affecting your judgement as an officer under my command."  
  
"Nothing is going on inside of my head," Derek answered defiantly.  
  
"Have you been to see a counsellor in the last three months?"  
  
"I do not need to see a counsellor."  
  
"Why did you try to resign, Derek?"  
  
"That is not your concern."  
  
"Answer the question or I'll throw you in the brig."  
  
Derek's eyebrows arched, an expression of daring on his face as he uttered the words  
  
"Throw me in the brig." His expression once again lapsed into one of emotion.  
  
"The kind of hostility you are showing is highly unvulcan."  
  
"And you, sir, are a chauvinistic, unsympathetic specimen of humanhood."  
  
The two men stared at each other until Van Menzies ordered "Bernstein to my ready room."  
  
Bernstein entered with one of his security personnel.  
  
"Mr. Derek is to be confined to his quarters for the duration of this mission."  
  
"Yes, sir," Bernstein replied, almost apologetically taking a hold of Derek's elbow. Derek shrugged off the security chief's grip and exited the ready room, the two officers following behind.  
  
The captain waited for the door to hiss shut again before saying  
  
"Van Menzies to Laru. Get me a channel to the Tagmaari Ambassador, please."  
  
"Right away, sir," replied the communications officer.  
  
The line was patched through to Van Menzies's ready room, and as the captain took the seat behind his desk, Ambassador Traklannia appeared on the small screen before him.  
  
"Ambassador. the communications laptop we gave you seems to be operational."  
  
"Captain, I extend my most sincere apologies to you, to Ensign Burnett, and to the other officers involved in the unfortunate event which took place in your galley. Nekrelliel, our licentious delegate, has been degendered and sentenced to life in prison. I am so very sorry for all the trouble he has caused and I assure you that not all Tagmaari are like he is. was," Traklannia told the captain.  
  
"Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait a second there, Ambassador. please. what do you mean when you say he was degendered?"  
  
"The. Surgeon General removed his genitalia in order to prevent him from perpetrating similar indiscretions in the future. Is there something wrong, captain?"  
  
"Is this procedure commonplace on your world?" Van Menzies watched the viewscreen as Traklannia blinked uncomfortably.  
  
"We felt it was in the best interests of our planet to make a special example of Nekrelliel as a gesture of goodwill to your Federation."  
  
Van Menzies released a vocal grimace.  
  
"You seem pleased," Traklannia noted.  
  
"Pleased?" Van Menzies repeated. "Ambassador Traklannia, the members of the Federation frown upon corporal punishment of this kind. I am very upset that this poor fellow was castrated. Is there any way that the procedure can be reversed?"  
  
"Yes, captain. Regendering is, I have been told, quite possible, and we preserved the organs in tawalla in the event that you regarded the punishment as being too harsh."  
  
"What is tawalla?" Van Menzies asked, curious.  
  
"It is a spice commonly used in the cuisine of our central continent."  
  
"The similarities between our cultures are astounding, Ambassador. One of the central continents on Earth specialises in spicy sausages as well."  
  
Traklannia laughed loudly before saying, "I do not understand, captain."  
  
"I would much appreciate this Nekrelliel of yours being regendered, as you call it."  
  
"That is as good as done."  
  
"And the life imprisonment is also a little harsh."  
  
"Of course, captain. Twenty years will suffice."  
  
"How does a month grab you, Ambassador?"  
  
"A most fitting and merciful punishment, captain."  
  
"I was contacting you in order to offer an apology of my own. One of my officers awoke you last night and beamed you all off the ship."  
  
"That is correct, captain."  
  
"I had nothing to do with that. I had no knowledge of this officer's actions until twenty minutes ago. The officer misled you and has himself been disciplined."  
  
"Oh. I see."  
  
"I would like to reopen diplomatic relations with your world."  
  
"I am quite elated to hear that."  
  
"Good. Would you like to beam up again, Ambassador?"  
  
The Ambassador leered.  
  
"Nothing would give me more pleasure, captain."  
  
Van Menzies smiled into the viewscreen.  
  
"And as you say on your world, Ambassador, 'Pleasuring the females is an end in itself'."  
  
Traklannia's single nostril flared open in shock.  
  
"How uncharacteristically uncouth, captain. Nevertheless, I shall contact you again within the hour."  
  
The viewscreen went blank.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
Van Menzies, Phelps, Doctor Tobriad, Bernstein and Dhara Nessil stood in the transporter room, all in dress uniforms, Transporter Chief Gilson behind the console. A tub of warm water sat at the edge of the transporter pad. The door hissed open and Corporal Karg entered. The senior staff looked him up and down and Van Menzies said  
  
"Don't you have a dress uniform, corporal?"  
  
Karg looked at his clothing, looked at Van Menzies's suit, returned his eyes to his own vestments.  
  
"I did. change clothes, captain. This is a clean uniform."  
  
Phelps leaned over to Van Menzies, whispered into his ear, and Van Menzies asked the Klingon, "Did you change your underwear, corporal?"  
  
The Klingon looked at Van Menzies, then at Phelps, then back at Van Menzies.  
  
"My underwear, captain?"  
  
"It's just there's a really bad smell." Van Menzies went on. The captain exchanged glances with his first officer, who nodded in agreement, and this was followed by the nodding heads of the rest of the senior staff.  
  
Karg looked with uncomfortable bewilderment into the face of Dhara Nessil, and the science officer bit her lower lip to prevent herself from laughing. The Klingon hissed in anger, composed himself a little before giving his response.  
  
"Ah, yes, captain," he said finally, a tone of realisation in his voice, "That would be the smell of targshit."  
  
"Targshit, corporal?"  
  
"Yes, captain. The targshit that is clogging up my ears due to the sound of your voice."  
  
The senior staff laughed, and Lieutenant Laru's voice came over the intercom.  
  
"Captain, the Ambassador is waiting to be beamed up."  
  
"Lower the shields, Laru," Van Menzies replied.  
  
  
  
  
  
On the bridge, Ensign Burnett stood at the security post, Crewman Gates stood at operations. Laru turned to Burnett, and called over to her  
  
"Lower the shields please, ensign."  
  
"Yes sir." Burnett lowered the shields surrounding the Lovelock, and Gates watched as the screen monitoring the tetryon cloud began flashing.  
  
"This is strange," Gates said, "The tetryon field off the port bow is. inverting subspace."  
  
Laru got out of the captain's chair, somewhat alarmed, and he asked  
  
"What do you mean, ensign?"  
  
"The subspace particles around the field are becoming polarised, causing a rift in subspace."  
  
Laru raised his voice.  
  
"Laru to Van Menzies. Is our guest aboard, sir?"  
  
"She's just arrived," was Van Menzies's answer from the transporter room, "Is there a problem, lieutenant?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Senior staff officers to the bridge immediately. As soon as we lowered the shields, the tetryon cloud began to invert subspace. I believe we could be facing some kind of an alien threat, sir."  
  
"We're on our way," Van Menzies said.  
  
Moments later, the captain, Phelps, Nessil and Bernstein stepped off the turbolift and onto the bridge, relieving the lesser ranking officers from their posts.  
  
Van Menzies looked at the viewscreen, watched the wormhole-like rift opening in subspace.  
  
"Whatever it is, it's beautiful," he observed, as he replaced Laru in the captain's chair.  
  
"Captain," Nessil shouted, with alarm, "I believe we are looking at an artificial portal of some kind into another universe. sensors are now picking up a vessel. captain, it's coming through the rift."  
  
The bridge crew watched the viewscreen as the huge and recognisably Dominion warship emerged from the inverted subspace window. All were silent until Van Menzies said  
  
"This is taking cloaking technology to a whole new dimension."  
  
Only Phelps laughed, before roaring  
  
"Back us up, Djanamar, back us up!"  
  
"Red alert!" Van Menzies shouted, standing up and moving into the centre of the bridge, eyes held intently on the viewscreen. "Raise shields! Arm the phaser banks and torpedo tubes!"  
  
The red alert klaxon started barking, and the lighting on the bridge diminished considerably.  
  
"Shields already raised, weapons fully charged," Bernstein responded.  
  
The Lovelock was turning slowly, accelerating gradually, its flank facing the Dominion warship, when the larger vessel caught the Federation starship in a tractor beam.  
  
Each of the bridge crew of the Lovelock grabbed anything that would prevent them from falling, except for Van Menzies, who fell over, as the entire ship shuddered from the impact made on the Federation craft from the tractor beam.  
  
"We're being held in a tractor beam, captai-"  
  
"Tell me something I don't know, lieutenant," Van Menzies interrupted the security officer, still sprawled on the carpet.  
  
"I'll tell you something you don't know, captain," Dhara Nessil put in, "That thing has no shields."  
  
"And what's the bad news, commander?" Phelps asked.  
  
"It has some sort of neutronium alloy for a hull. There's no way our weapons can penetrate it."  
  
"Neutronium?" Phelps said in disbelief.  
  
"I. that's what the sensors are telling me, commander. Don't ask me to explain."  
  
Bernstein made his next point.  
  
"Captain, the vessel is definitely Dominion according to its impulse signature."  
  
"Your predilection for stating the obvious in times of crisis astounds me, lieutenant," Van Menzies said, clambering to his feet.  
  
"All right, all right, captain," Bernstein said, a little incensed, "That Dominion warship. which has us in a tractor beam. is. endowed. with fourteen torpedo tubes, twelve disruptors, four phaser batteries and six ion cannons. on this side. And from what I can tell, this is its good side."  
  
Van Menzies considered his options for a split second, before saying  
  
"Hail them. Hail the Dominion ship."  
  
There was a bleep, silence, and Bernstein said  
  
"No response. Oh. they're responding. by powering up all weapons."  
  
The Lovelock trembled as phaser beams, torpedoes, ion charges and disruptor blasts rained down on the ship for half a minute. Before the attack ended, a series of sparks flew from the conn, electrocuting the ensign sitting before it. She fell back off her seat and onto the floor. Phelps got up off his own seat, went over to her, felt her neck for a pulse. He turned his head towards Van Menzies, who was once again picking himself up off the floor, brushing down his dress uniform out of a context- ironic habit which only Commander Phelps picked up on. Van Menzies returned his eyes to the viewscreen as his nostrils filled with the stench of burnt circuitry. The lights flickered off, and the alarm ceased; the bridge was reduced to darkness.  
  
"Main power offline," Crewman Gates reported from her post. "Rerouting to secondary systems."  
  
There was an intimidating silence, save for the bleating computer.  
  
"Divert to those auxiliaries quicksharp, Miss Gates," Van Menzies ordered, and no sooner had he given the order than the lights returned.  
  
"Ensign Djanamar's dead, sir," Phelps told his superior, taking her place at the conn.  
  
"Computer, turn off that alarm," Van Menzies ordered, and the klaxon stopped sounding.  
  
The turbolift doors were pulled open manually from within, and Derek, dressed in a silk dressing gown, emerged from the elevator and onto the bridge. The doors hissed shut behind him.  
  
"We've lost shields," Bernstein reported, as Derek took his place at the engineering station.  
  
Bernstein continued. "Casualty reports coming in from. everywhere. Hull breaches on decks four, eleven, sixteen, and. that's it. Forcefields are in place. Environmental's. gone. Shields at. two percent. four percent. three percent. one point five percent. shields are. offline. Aft phaser array. destroyed. We still have forward phasers. Sensors, communications, life support. all online."  
  
"Do we have engines?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"Negative," was Derek's response, "Impulse and warp drives are currently inoperative."  
  
"We're a sitting duck," Bernstein added, "We won't survive another attack."  
  
"You found any Achilles' heels yet, Mr. Derek?" Van Menzies demanded of the Vulcan at the engineering station. Derek was scanning the data that was coming up on his screen.  
  
"Mr. Derek!" Van Menzies shouted impatiently.  
  
Derek looked up at Van Menzies, back at his console, and finally gave his response.  
  
"There is a tetryon emitter protruding from the underside of the Dominion craft. It would seem that the interior of the emitter tube is the only part of the vessel's hull that is not protected by the neutronium armour. The diameter of the tube is approximately eight meters across, wide enough to fire a quantum torpedo into. If we hit that with precision. Sir, it's a long shot, and we will have to move into closer range in order to ensure that the torpedo is on target."  
  
Van Menzies returned his eyes to the viewscreen, muttered "You know you're in trouble when the Vulcan tells you it's a long shot" and Bernstein declared "Shields are back online. at point two five percent."  
  
"Oh, well, we're saved, then. Saved by the shields," Van Menzies said, mock delight in his voice. "I don't suppose we have warp yet, Mr. Derek?"  
  
"I'm working on it, captain."  
  
The turbolift doors were pulled open manually and the Klingon entered the bridge, armed with bat'leth in one hand. The doors hissed shut behind him.  
  
"What is wrong with the turbolift doors?" he asked, frustratedly.  
  
"Those doors always go faulty when we're under attack," Phelps snapped back.  
  
"They're powering up weapons again, sir," Bernstein warned.  
  
"Hail them!" Van Menzies shouted.  
  
Bernstein did as ordered, and Gul Barram's sneering face appeared on the screen.  
  
"I am Captain Art Van Menzies of the U.S.S. Lovelock. You have my unconditional surrender. Please power down your weapons and give me five minutes to psychologically prepare my crew for incarceration in a Dominion internment camp."  
  
Barram laughed hollowly.  
  
"Five minutes, captain. No longer."  
  
The communication ended.  
  
Karg marched up to Van Menzies.  
  
"I was right about the tetryon cloud being a cloaked Dominion ship, was I not?" he said.  
  
Van Menzies nodded.  
  
"And you have surrendered your ship without firing a single shot. You are without honour, human," he spat, "You are a coward."  
  
"Look, Karg, I'm having a rough day. The last thing I need is a Klingon, with terrible teeth, I might add, even for a Klingon, telling me I've no honour, so why don't you get off my bridge and leave me alone?" Van Menzies returned Karg's stare, and continued to return it until Bernstein reported that  
  
"The enemy vessel is powering down weapons. They have also released us from the tractor beam."  
  
Karg turned to Phelps, gripped him by the shoulder with his free hand.  
  
"I believe this Dominion ship has no shields?"  
  
"Oh, they've got shields," Phelps replied, "But not as we know them."  
  
"Could a transporter beam penetrate the hull of the ship?" Karg asked, and Phelps shrugged.  
  
"Yes," Derek answered the question, "Yes, it could."  
  
Karg turned to Phelps again.  
  
"I want to beam over. I want to beam over there and fight the Jem'Hadar scum."  
  
"On your own?" Phelps asked, "Because you can count me out."  
  
Karg reflected for a moment.  
  
"On my own," he declared proudly.  
  
"All right, Karg-I order you to beam over there and kick some butt. Get your honourable death if that's what you want. Just get off my bridge," Van Menzies said.  
  
Karg left the bridge and Van Menzies took a few paces forward to stand beside his first officer at the conn. Phelps looked up at him, a half- smile on his face. Van Menzies half-smiled back.  
  
"What?" the captain said finally.  
  
"What 'What'?" Phelps replied.  
  
"Why are you looking at me like that, Leroy?"  
  
"We're not really going to surrender, are we, sir?"  
  
"Do you suspect my motives, Leroy?"  
  
"I always suspect your motives, cap'n. Ever since that other Art Van Menzies from the alternate timeline tried to take over the ship two years ago. And with changelings all over the quadrant, you just don't know who's who any more. But that's not the point. I know you've got a plan."  
  
Van Menzies turned his head, looked at the floor, thought. Thought hard. Finally, he opened his mouth again.  
  
"We could blow up the ship."  
  
"You mean you don't have a plan?"  
  
Van Menzies shrugged.  
  
"I was kind of hoping you had a plan."  
  
"I'm the first officer. You're the one who should have a plan," Phelps protested.  
  
"Look, let's not fight about this, Leroy. We've got about three minutes to come up with a plan."  
  
"Fifteen dead, twenty-seven wounded, sir," Bernstein called out.  
  
Van Menzies winced.  
  
"How long do we have before you can give us warp power, Mr. Derek?" he asked.  
  
"I'm working on it," Derek didn't look up.  
  
"Good." Van Menzies strode back over to his seat. He unzipped his uniform to reveal the red tunic beneath it and padded his brow and his upper lip with his sleeve. "Damage control?" he asked Bernstein, who replied "They're at work, sir."  
  
"Good."  
  
Phelps had been watching Van Menzies's face intently.  
  
"Art," he said.  
  
"Yes, commander?"  
  
"Tell us."  
  
There was silence. Finally, Van Menzies got to his feet again.  
  
"In order to initiate the warp field reaction, I'm going to have to divert power from all systems," Derek told the captain.  
  
"Do whatever it is you have to do, Mister Derek. You can have everything except for weapons."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Van Menzies turned to Bernstein who stood behind him.  
  
"On my mark, you arm those torpedo tubes with a full spread of quantums, lieutenant. not just yet. on my mark. Got it?"  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
"How long before we have warp, Mister Derek?" Van Menzies repeated.  
  
"Give me half a minute," Derek didn't look up, "Half a minute and we shall have warp capability."  
  
"Good," Van Menzies said, and he returned to his position next to Phelps at the conn. Phelps looked into his face knowingly.  
  
"The Picard Manoeuvre," he said finally.  
  
"Got it in one, Leroy," Van Menzies replied.  
  
  
  
  
  
Sirc Tobriad stood over the bed of his fourth casualty in sickbay, ran his tricorder over the body of the Bolian crewman for the second time, and received the same monotone timbre from his instrument.  
  
"He's gone, sir," the nurse beside him insisted.  
  
The doors hissed open, and Transporter Chief Gilson limped into sickbay, followed by the screeching Tagmaari ambassador who held her injured left arm in her right hand. Tobriad glanced at the two new arrivals; he could sense their intense physical pain, but professional objectivity required that he ignore them for the moment; he could see that they were not mortally wounded, and the patient on the second table had more urgent needs.  
  
"You administered the hypospray?" he asked the nurse, who nodded.  
  
"Her condition has stabilised," the nurse answered, as Tobriad began to treat the unconscious human female's plasma burns with a dermal regenerator retrieved from the trolley at the foot of the bed.  
  
"We're in pain here," Gilson exclaimed, and Tobriad shouted  
  
"You'll both live."  
  
Gilson looked at the Tagmaari ambassador, who seemed a little upset that she was not receiving immediate medical treatment.  
  
"Computer," Gilson began, "Activate the Emergency Medical Holographic Program."  
  
Two hens and a cock suddenly appeared on the floor of sickbay, pecking at the carpet with relish.  
  
  
  
Karg stepped off the turbolift and sprinted down the corridor and into the transporter room. It was empty.  
  
"Computer, where is the transporter chief?" Karg demanded to know.  
  
The computer bleated and replied  
  
"Transporter Chief Gilson is in sickbay."  
  
"Argghh," Karg roared angrily, and moved towards the console. He tapped the transporter co-ordinates into the computer; he would arrive on what he assumed to be the bridge of the Dominion ship. "Cowards," he said to himself, "The Federation cowards would sooner give themselves up than die." He made his way around the console, leapt onto the transporter pad and raised his bat'leth in preparation for battle.  
  
"Prepare to die, Dominion slime," he hissed, as the lights went out and the transporter powered down.  
  
  
  
  
  
"The Dominion warship is powering up weapons, sir. they're hailing us," Bernstein's voice could be heard in the darkness.  
  
"They know something's up," Phelps said.  
  
"Arm torpedo tubes, target that tetryon emitter, Bernstein," Van Menzies ordered.  
  
"Torpedo tubes loaded," Bernstein said, "Target lock attained."  
  
"Go to warp, drop out of warp at the specified co-ordinates," Van Menzies ordered, and added "Now!"  
  
The U.S.S. Lovelock leapt half a kilometer nearer to the giant enemy craft, and was seemingly in two places at once; four quantum torpedoes were fired by the Federation ship, chasing one another rapidly up the inside of the tetryon cannon.  
  
Power returned to the Lovelock, the lights came on on the bridge and the crew watched the viewscreen as the hull surrounding the tetryon emitter of the prototype Dominion warship broke away from the rest of the vessel and floated off into space. A vast, gaping hole in the hull now exposed the interior of the enemy ship.  
  
"Fire phasers! Fire torpedoes! Just. give it everything! Now, now, now!" Van Menzies roared, a little over-excitedly.  
  
Phasers and torpedoes soared from the Lovelock, searing the warship's exposed interior in explosion after explosion.  
  
"We've struck some kind of a reactor. all of the Dominion warship's weapons systems have been knocked completely offline, as have their warp engines," Bernstein said. A bleeping sound indicated that the warship was hailing the Lovelock.  
  
"Cease firing weapons," the captain ordered, before adding, "Onscreen," and a huge image of the Cardassian gul, a little more deflated than the last time, appeared on the viewer.  
  
"Captain Van Menzies," Gul Barram addressed his Star Fleet counterpart, "Your duplicity is most ignoble."  
  
"Tell that to the Judge Advocate General," Van Menzies retorted, "Your weapons are offline. and we have plenty. Do we have your surrender?"  
  
"Yes, captain. You have our surrender. Just give me five minutes to-"  
  
"No thanks, gul. I'm sure you will find our prisons quite tolerable. We're locking onto you with our tractor beam and towing you to Deep Space Four."  
  
"Yes, captain."  
  
A man, seemingly handcuffed, came into view beyond Gul Barram.  
  
"Is that a human, gul?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
Gul Barram turned, glanced at the handcuffed person behind him, said  
  
"No, captain. This is an Elorean."  
  
The Elorean addressed Van Menzies.  
  
"Captain, my name is Vaaltan; I was taken prisoner by the Dominion only hours ago before the Bolian freighter on which I had been travelling was destroyed by this warship. I would hope to be beamed over to your starship, where I must have a shuttle in order to return to Vulcan where I am working for the F.W.D.D. on an arms project integral to the War."  
  
"Oh?" Van Menzies said, and Karg could be seen, through the viewscreen, materialising on the bridge of the Dominion ship, bat'leth raised and battle-ready.  
  
"We've surrendered!" Barram shouted quickly, before the Klingon could attack the nearest opponent.  
  
"Beam over with Mister Karg, Mister Vaaltan," Van Menzies told the Elorean.  
  
"Yes, captain," Vaaltan replied.  
  
"Lock a tractor beam onto the enemy vessel," Phelps ordered, "Beam our two friends back to the Lovelock. Set a course back to Deep Space Four and engage at high warp."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Aye, sir. Sirs. warp has gone offline."  
  
"Well, get it back online," Phelps prompted.  
  
"Yes, commander."  
  
Van Menzies turned, made his way up the staircase to the turbolift.  
  
"I'll be in the transporter room meeting our Elorean friend, Mr. Phelps. You have the floor."  
  
"Yes, cap'n."  
  
"Oh, and somebody escort Lieutenant Derek back to his quarters," the captain ordered, as his head collided with the turbolift door.  
  
  
  
Van Menzies arrived in the transporter room, a padd tucked under his arm, to see Lance Udigawa standing behind the console.  
  
"Where's Chief Gilson, ensign?" the captain asked.  
  
"He's in sickbay, sir," Udigawa replied, "He shattered his kneecap during the battle."  
  
"Sounds painful," Van Menzies said.  
  
"I. wouldn't know, sir. I've never. shattered my kneecap."  
  
"You're one of these junior officers who finds it difficult to talk to his captain, aren't you, ensign?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Very good. Energise."  
  
Karg and Vaaltan, his arms still bound, arrived on the transporter pad; they stepped down off it, Vaaltan immediately addressing Van Menzies.  
  
"Thank you, captain. Now if you could just give me a shuttle, I'll be on my way."  
  
Van Menzies looked at the padd, and said to the Elorean  
  
"Mister Vaaltan, I am afraid that I must contact Star Fleet Command before I allow you to take off in a shuttle."  
  
"Why is that, captain?"  
  
"It seems that you were working on a project at a secret location on Vulcan for the Federation until six months ago. Since then, you have been working on the Dyphtha, which, if I am to believe the report that has just come in over subspace, disappeared from sensors at approximately 0800H yesterday morning."  
  
Vaaltan gave Van Menzies an alarmed look, which transformed into unease as he tried to curb his impatience.  
  
"Captain, the project is top secret. I assure you that I have been working on it while I was on the Dyphtha, but obviously everything had to be kept very low-key."  
  
"I appreciate that, Vaaltan, but you have to understand that you have just been found onboard a Dominion warship of. intimidating technology. And according to the information I have, you resigned from the Federation project six months ago."  
  
"Captain, without meaning to sound facetious. or arrogant, for that matter, my work is indispensable to the Federation and I have no doubt that it will be integral to the outcome of the War. I must get back to Vulcan, and your deliberations may be detrimental-"  
  
"Mister Vaaltan, I apologise, but I cannot let you off this ship until I am told to do so by Star Fleet Command."  
  
The comm system bleeped, Commander Phelps's voice came through from the bridge.  
  
"Captain, the Dominion ship has just sent a subspace message back to Cardassian territory."  
  
"What did it say, commander?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"Unknown, sir. it was encrypted. some sort of a program, I think."  
  
"Destroy their communications system and take us to warp as soon as possible, Leroy. We'd better get out of here before more of these new- fangled interdimensional vessels arrive and send us to kingdom come. I'm on my way to the bridge," Van Menzies turned to the Elorean. "Mister Vaaltan." They left the transporter room together, Karg behind them. As Udigawa watched them depart, he saw Vaaltan glance at him; the look was filled with pure hatred.  
  
Van Menzies's communicator bleeped.  
  
"Ksaioo to Van Menzies. Captain, it'll take us approximately one hour to get warp back online."  
  
"All right. Make it quick. Quick as you can. Van Menzies out.  
  
"Van Menzies to the bridge. Leroy, contact Star Fleet, tell them what happened, ask them about Vaaltan. He's requesting a shuttle and I don't want to give him one until we have clearance."  
  
"Aye, cap'n."  
  
"And get them to send reinforcements."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Van Menzies out."  
  
Van Menzies, Vaaltan and Karg stopped at the turbolift and the screeching Tagmaari ambassador emerged from it.  
  
"Captain."  
  
"Ambassador."  
  
"Please contact the Tagmaari home world again when your war is over."  
  
"Yes, Ambassador."  
  
  
  
"Communication coming in from Star Fleet, commander," Laru informed Phelps on the bridge.  
  
"Onscreen," Phelps said, as he stood up from the captain's chair.  
  
Admiral Nucheyev appeared on the viewer.  
  
"Commander, we've received your message. Professor Vaaltan must be granted a shuttle at once."  
  
"Yes, admiral."  
  
"The Boazman and the Pegasus are both on their way towards you as we speak."  
  
"Very good, admiral."  
  
"And please keep Star Fleet posted, commander. Nucheyev out."  
  
The admiral's face was replaced by the Federation icon.  
  
"Short and sweet," Bernstein said.  
  
"And incredibly sexy," Phelps added in muttered tones, audibly enough to be heard by the bridge crew.  
  
Ensign Burnett, sitting at the conn, turned and threw Phelps a glance of disgust. Phelps, misinterpreting the look, smiled and said  
  
"But not as sexy as Ensign Burnett."  
  
Burnett rolled her eyes upwards, shook her head, sighed, and returned her eyes to the console.  
  
"Commander," Bernstein said, "Thorion particles are emanating from the Dominion ship."  
  
"Thorion particles?"  
  
"Yes, sir. The particles are moving towards the Lovelock. they'll have surrounded us in ten minutes."  
  
"Can you back us away, ensign?"  
  
Burnett, sitting at the conn, answered  
  
"Impulse engines have been taken offline until warp is back up."  
  
"Thorion particles will disrupt sensors," Phelps noted to himself, "Is there anything we can do to dissipate them?"  
  
"Commander," Bernstein shouted urgently, "The Dominion vessel's going to warp!"  
  
"I thought we knocked their warp drive offline," Phelps said, "Reinitialise impulse engines to give the tractor beam more pull."  
  
"Commander. there's a warp core breach in progress on the Dominion ship!"  
  
"Get the impulse engines back online," Phelps shouted, "Disengage the tractor beam and pull us away from that ship! Try to get us behind the Tagmaari moon, ensign. hurry!"  
  
Thrusters turned the Lovelock around one hundred and eighty degrees and she accelerated slowly away from the Dominion prototype. The enemy vessel appeared on the viewscreen and Phelps watched as its warp nacelles exploded in puffy fireballs.  
  
"Moving at full impulse!"  
  
"Shields!"  
  
"Shields at four percent."  
  
The Dominion warship moved out of visual range to be replaced by the image of the rim of Tagmaaros's single natural satellite. The moon's surface lit up suddenly, producing an ecliptic effect on the viewscreen as the Lovelock trembled, not fully shielded by the moon from the explosion. Finally, the shock wave subsided. The Lovelock cautiously re-emerged from beyond the moon and the bridge crew saw the remnants of the experimental vessel floating disparately in space.  
  
"Some of the debris has entered the Tagmaari atmosphere, commander, as has a large piece of. the moon.. which was dislodged during the explosion."  
  
"Phaser the foreign bodies out of the atmosphere. any pieces of neutronium we'll have to beam back into space," Phelps said, as Van Menzies, Vaaltan and Karg entered the bridge.  
  
"The Dominion ship has self-destructed, captain," the first officer informed Van Menzies, "and we've just had a communication from Admiral Nucheyev green-lighting a shuttle for Vaaltan. Two Federation starships are also on their way."  
  
"All right," Van Menzies turned to the Elorean. "Off you go. Bernstein, escort Vaaltan to Docking Bay One. Give him one of the shuttles."  
  
Vaaltan and Bernstein exited the bridge.  
  
"I'm picking up life signs. four life signs in a tiny life-pod, which was jettisoned from the enemy ship, moving away at low warp. I can no longer trace it," Crewman Gates said, as her console began to bleep. "Thorion particles have completely surrounded the Lovelock. They have been spread throughout the inner solar system. sensors are useless."  
  
"We have to get out of here," Phelps said, "The Dominion ship self- destructed in order to spread those thorion particles so that our sensors would be inoperative."  
  
The captain sighed, ran his palm over his forehead.  
  
"Van Menzies to Ksaioo," the captain began, addressing his acting chief engineer. "How long before we have warp back online?"  
  
"Reinitialising the impulse drive kind of messed things up down here on Deck Eleven, captain," came Ksaioo's response from Engineering, "It could take as long as ninety minutes."  
  
"You have sixty, Ksaioo. We need those engines back up."  
  
"The Tagmaari atmosphere has been purged of all foreign bodies," the security officer reported.  
  
"Good work, ensign," Phelps commended. He turned to face the captain. "I suggest we beam some of that neutronium armour from what's left of the enemy into one of the cargo bays, cap'n. I reckon our science officers would find it very interesting."  
  
"That's an idea, Phelps. Do it."  
  
"Bernstein is requesting clearance for Vaaltan's shuttle, captain," the security officer said.  
  
Laru turned from the communications post to address Van Menzies.  
  
"An urgent communication coming in from Star Fleet Command, captain. It's Admiral Paris calling from Deep Space Four. on a secure channel."  
  
"Tell Mister Bernstein to open the bay doors and let Mister Vaaltan go at once."  
  
There was silence for a minute.  
  
"The shuttle has cleared the Lovelock. it's gone to warp and out of sensor range."  
  
"That communication from Admiral Paris, captain?" Laru prompted.  
  
"Onscreen," Van Menzies said, and Paris's face appeared on the viewer. "Admiral, we've just seen Mister Vaaltan off in a shuttle bound for Vulcan."  
  
"Excellent news, captain," Paris smiled, seemingly delighted. It was the first time Van Menzies had ever seen Paris break into a full smile. "Tell me. what's your status?"  
  
"We're still working on repairs, admiral."  
  
"How long will they take?"  
  
"We'll have warp within the hour."  
  
"Very good. The Pegasus and the Boazman should reach you by then. Has your mission been a success?"  
  
"Not particularly, admiral. The Tagmaari want nothing to do with us until the War is over. You'll have a report from me tomorrow morning."  
  
"Not to worry, captain. I'm sure you did your best."  
  
"More bad news, admiral. I'm afraid the Dominion warship was destroyed-"  
  
"Destroyed?"  
  
"Yes, due to a warp core breach. We've beamed aboard some pieces of the wreckage for analysis. we'll bring them back to the station with us-"  
  
"Captain, I want you to beam that debris back into space," Paris said sternly, "The Pegasus and the Boazman will take care of the cleanup operation. In fact, you should be picking them up on your sensors just about now."  
  
"Our sensors are useless due to a massive thorion field which the Dominion warship exposed us to."  
  
"I wonder why they did that?"  
  
"I don't know, admiral, but I'm anxious to leave this system as soon as possible."  
  
"Yes, captain, of course. but your orders are to remain there until the other starships arrive. Capiche?"  
  
"Yes, admiral. Certainly."  
  
"That's all for now." Again, Paris smiled.  
  
Van Menzies returned the smile with a beaming grin of his own.  
  
"We'll contact you again within the hour. Tell me, admiral. how's Tom?"  
  
"Tom?"  
  
"Your son Tom. How is he, admiral?"  
  
"He's fine, captain. Just fine. I was talking to him only last week."  
  
"So he's fully recovered?"  
  
"Yes, he's. back on his feet, fit and healthy as ever."  
  
"Glad to hear it, admiral. Tell him I was asking for him."  
  
"I'll do that, captain. Paris out."  
  
The admiral's face was replaced by the Federation icon.  
  
"Nefarious shape-shifting bastards," Van Menzies said. "Can we trace that signal, lieutenant?"  
  
"Negative," Laru answered.  
  
"What about the previous transmission, from Nucheyev?"  
  
"We still have the sensor readings."  
  
"Trace the signal, Laru."  
  
"What's going on, cap'n?" Phelps asked.  
  
"Admiral Paris doesn't smile and his vocabulary is completely bereft of colloquialisms like 'capiche'. And his son, Tom Paris, is sixty-thousand light years away from here right now on the other side of the galaxy with Kathryn Janeway and co on the Voyager."  
  
"The previous transmission came from a Federation buoy three light years from here." Laru said, "It looks pretty genuine, sirs, but the message sent by the Dominion warship would have bypassed the Federation communications array long before it entered Cardassian territory."  
  
"And you said that the Dominion transmission was some kind of a program, Laru?" Phelps asked.  
  
"Yes, sir, at the time, part of the data stream they transmitted was consistent with sort of an. interactive holo-program. Another part of it looked like. well, now that I look at it, I suppose it could have been a computer virus of some sort. which could possibly have adapted the Federation array to its own ends. But it was encrypted, sir, so I wasn't sure."  
  
"And what about our own communication, Laru? Did it reach the Federation?" Phelps asked.  
  
"It was sent directly to Deep Space Four, sir. but according to sensors, it reached that particular communications buoy and." Laru stopped short, shook his head. "I'm sorry. it is a Federation array. I just assumed. Sorry."  
  
"Deploy the runabouts," Van Menzies said finally. "We have to get Vaaltan back."  
  
Bernstein came onto the bridge from the turbolift.  
  
"Bernstein, release Derek and take the Hindenberg in order to locate Vaaltan. Udigawa and Naia can take the Enola Gay, Burnett and Serebryakov can pilot the U-2 and Dhara and Tobriad can have the Spirit of Saint Louis. Split up and find Vaaltan, try to take him in alive."  
  
Burnett, Bernstein and Dhara Nessil made to depart from the bridge.  
  
"Dhara, you and Toby must try to locate that escape pod that was jettisoned from the Dominion warship."  
  
"Yes, captain."  
  
"Is it wise, deploying all of the runabouts when we're half expecting a Dominion attack?" Phelps asked.  
  
"Locating Vaaltan is our top priority, Leroy."  
  
"But you're endangering the crew, cap'n."  
  
"We still have seven shuttles, Leroy. We have to find this guy or it could have serious repercussions in terms of the War. If that sonofabitch did create that interdimensional warship, we're in big trouble come the time he makes the Mark Two version."  
  
"I guess you're right, sir. But do we have grounds to arrest him?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I mean, we don't have any proof that he's working for the Dominion; for all we know, he was telling us the truth. And we can't risk attempting to contact the Federation for fear that the Dominion are monitoring our transmissions, which they seem to be doin'."  
  
"Those two false communications would seem to be grounds enough to attempt to retrieve our naughty Elorean friend, Leroy. We have to find him. Maybe it would be wise to search the computer library, try to dish up some dirt on Mister Vaaltan. Just in case."  
  
"Aye, cap'n."  
  
"In the meantime, I'll go to the cargo bay and conduct the salvage operation. You have the floor."  
  
  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
Lance Udigawa and Lworrana Naia sat in the cockpit onboard the Enola Gay awaiting clearance for departure.  
  
"Lovelock to the Enola Gay, you're cleared for departure," came Laru's voice from the bridge.  
  
"I just can't believe he could be so. callous," Udigawa told Naia, "Thrusters are engaged. Impulse engines at one tenth. We've cleared the docking bay doors. I mean, naming the runabout after a vessel that was responsible for one of the most horrific events in the history of humanity. the destruction of the city I was born in. Setting a course out of the Tagmaari system."  
  
"Yes, Lance, but it happened so long ago. the twentieth century, wasn't it?" Lworrana asked.  
  
"Yes, it was so long ago, but it was a terrible period for Earth, and although it's important to be reminded about it so that we don't make the same mistakes again, it's offensive that he should name a runabout after an aircraft. Heading two three nine mark four. after a bomber that wiped out a city. It's not right. I think I'll file a complaint when we get back to Star Fleet."  
  
Lworrana smiled.  
  
"I think you're being oversensitive, ensign."  
  
"I am? Why doesn't he name the runabouts after. oh, I don't know. concentration camps or something?!"  
  
"The captain's a human, Lance, not a Vulcan."  
  
"I'm not talking about meditation schools, crewman; I'm talking about death camps! Don't you know your Earth history?"  
  
"Not really, no. I'm a Betazoid."  
  
"You're a Betazoid? I'm sorry, I had no idea, Lworrana. I thought you were human. I always wondered how you were so intuitive."  
  
She laughed.  
  
"I should have seen it in your eyes, which are really beautiful by the way."  
  
She laughed again.  
  
"I'm serious," he went on, "You have the most incredible eyes. And that exotic name, it's such a gorgeous name. I mean. eh. maybe we could have dinner together some time? Moving into warp."  
  
"We'll see, ensign."  
  
  
  
  
  
Onboard the Hindenberg, Bernstein and Derek were on a flight path diametrically opposed to the Enola Gay's.  
  
"We have cleared the thorion field," Derek said, "Sensors are fully operational. There is a distortion field composed of anti-lepton radiation encompassing the entire Tagmaari solar system and three point five light years beyond, scrambling our communications. Any contact with the Federation is impossible. Sensors, however, are fully operational."  
  
"That's one big field. Are there any shuttles in the vicinity?" Bernstein asked.  
  
"Negative. The nearest vessel on long range sensors is a Venaran Corvette approximately six light years from here. We are now approaching the single gas giant of the Tagmaari system. Sensors cannot penetrate any further than the upper stratosphere so I shall launch a probe."  
  
"Yeah. then we'll move on to high warp. We don't want to be wasting much time. We've got a mad scientist to catch." Bernstein saw Derek's face flinch a little, as if he'd taken the 'mad scientist' jibe personally.  
  
"Launching probe now," the Vulcan declared, as the Hindenberg veered around the methane planet, a probe shooting out of the runabout directly into the thick vapours. "The probe has entered the upper atmosphere." As the telemetry from the probe began to scroll down the sensor screen, Derek grunted in alarm.  
  
"I didn't know Vulcans grunted," Bernstein said.  
  
"I was not grunting," Derek denied, "I was merely clearing my throat. Nevertheless, I feel it necessary to point out that two Jem'Hadar fighters are hiding in the upper ionosphere of the planet. They are gaining altitude and at present course and rate of acceleration shall have emerged from the planet's atmosphere in thirty seconds."  
  
"Raising shields. Arming phaser banks."  
  
"I shall target their expected point of departure from the stratosphere." Twenty-five seconds later, the Jem'Hadar fighters emerged from the gas giant at full impulse speed.  
  
"Firing phasers."  
  
A prolonged phaser beam struck the nearer of the two enemy ships and it swerved immediately around, screaming helplessly back into the hostile atmosphere. The second fighter turned on an intercept course towards the runabout, weapons blazing as it made its suicidal run. The runabout shuddered from the attack, Bernstein altered course and veered the runabout clear of the Jem'Hadar fighter's path. He felt himself suddenly growing lighter, and watched his body float out of the pilot's seat. He grabbed the back of his chair, pushed himself back into it as Derek informed him that  
  
"Artificial gravity is offline. Shields at twenty-eight percent. The Jem'Hadar fighter is coming around for a second attack."  
  
"Attempting a target lock. the target is too erratic. I can't get a fix. Switching to manual."  
  
The fighter zigzagged towards the Hindenberg, its weapons firing aimlessly as it made its second run. The Hindenberg's phasers seared the fighter's shields.  
  
"Direct hit," Derek informed Bernstein, "No effect."  
  
As the fighter closed on the runabout, its weapons fire became more and more accurate. The Hindenberg once again rocked from the assault, Bernstein fired a last second phaser burst before the fighter could collide with the runabout, and the enemy ship's hull tore open; it went into an out- of- control spin, following its sister ship back into the methane giant and out of visual range.  
  
"The warp containment field has been compromised. Warp core breach is imminent," the runabout's computer dutifully informed its two occupants.  
  
Derek laughed.  
  
Bernstein turned to him, alarmed, both men floating above their consoles.  
  
"What's so funny?" the security chief snapped.  
  
"We've lost life support. We have about forty minutes worth of oxygen left in the vessel, a warp core breach is in progress. and there are microfractures all over the hull. We are going to die."  
  
"And you find that amusing?"  
  
"But it is amusing, don't you think, lieutenant?"  
  
"No. What the hell's the matter with you, Derek?"  
  
Derek tittered, shook his head in despair and looked at Bernstein angrily.  
  
"I. don't. know."  
  
Bernstein firmly pushed Derek away from his console.  
  
"Warp core breach in three minutes thirty seconds," the computer warned.  
  
"I'm relieving you," Bernstein informed the Vulcan, beginning to scan the vicinity of the gas giant looming in front of them.  
  
"I would stand relieved," Derek chortled, "But we've lost gravity!"  
  
"I've located an m-class moon orbiting the planet," Bernstein said, "Setting a course. one nine one mark four. Ahead full impulse."  
  
"Warp core breach in three minutes fifteen seconds," the computer warned.  
  
"Computer, prepare to eject the warp core," Bernstein ordered.  
  
  
  
"I've found something," Phelps said, striding into the cargo bay to see Van Menzies standing over a heap of wreckage, looking down at one piece of hull. "It predates the Prime Directive by a century and a half, but, hell, it's better than nothin', I guess."  
  
Van Menzies seemed more interested in the wreckage. He nodded towards a piece of neutronium coated hull, imploring his first officer to  
  
"Touch it."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Touch the wreckage."  
  
Leroy stooped down, lowered his hand towards the wreckage, and before his fingers were five centimetres from it, his hand was thrust forward to stick solidly against the plating. He looked at Van Menzies in surprise.  
  
"The neutromium coat is less than one micron thick," the captain told Phelps, "but check out that gravitational pull."  
  
Phelps withdrew his hand with some difficulty, wiped it off his trouser leg.  
  
"Listen, sir, apparently Vaaltan was living and working in the United States of America on Earth, during the Second World War. On." Phelps withdrew a minipadd from inside his jacket and began to access it ".July twelfth, 1962, he went for a dip off the California coast, disappeared and was never seen or heard from again. During the 1930's, '40's and '50's, he lived and worked as Professor Peter Michael Valtan. Check out this holo- image." Phelps handed Van Menzies the padd. The captain looked at the black and white picture on the screen, composed of what seemed to be a number of lab-coated scientists, standing in what appeared to be a desert landscape.  
  
"That was taken in Nevada, early 1943. Check out the guy in the middle."  
  
"It's Vaaltan."  
  
"Helping to develop the first atomic weapons."  
  
"It's a photograph, Leroy."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"They called them photographs. Not holo-images."  
  
"Yeah, whatever. But Vaaltan was helping to develop the first weapons of mass destruction on Earth, interfering with the technological advancement of a pre-warp civilisation when he should have been sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs."  
  
"It does predate the Federation Charter by one hundred and fifty years, Leroy," Van Menzies said, "and maybe he just got caught up in the anti-fascist movement. Maybe he thought he was working for a noble cause."  
  
"Yeah, well, Art, maybe he should have known better."  
  
Van Menzies was startled by the bald emotion underlying his first officer's statement. He looked into Phelps's eyes, read the officer's face, saw that he was genuinely offended by Vaaltan's interference in Earth's development. He smiled at Phelps, nodded in agreement.  
  
"If you can make it stick, we'll use it, commander," he said quietly.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ensign Udigawa and Crewman Naia were picking up a shuttle on their sensors.  
  
"It's from the Lovelock," Naia verified.  
  
"I'm laying in a pursuit course. moving to warp nine."  
  
Minutes ticked by before Naia declared "We're within transporter range. There is one Elorean on board, but the shuttle's shields are raised."  
  
"Slowing to match the shuttle's velocity. Open a channel," Udigawa ordered, before addressing the shuttle's pilot. "This is the Runabout Enola Gay to the Shuttle di Gama. Please lower your shields and drop out of warp. Prepare to be beamed onto the runabout."  
  
A moment later Vaaltan appeared on the monitor to the left of the runabout window.  
  
"Is something wrong?" Vaaltan asked impatiently.  
  
"Yes, professor, I order you to lower your shields so we can beam you aboard the runabout and return to the Lovelock," Udigawa told him in courteous tones.  
  
"I'm on my way to Vulcan!" Vaaltan protested, "It is imperative-"  
  
"If you are on your way to Vulcan, sir, you are going in the wrong direction."  
  
"This is outrageous! I was hoping to get a faster transport from Ferenginar."  
  
"Please lower your shields and drop out of warp." The shuttle dropped out of warp, and Naia watched on her screen as the shields disappeared from around the vessel.  
  
"Transporter protocol five, crewman?" Udigawa suggested.  
  
"A wise precaution, ensign."  
  
Vaaltan materialised on the transporter pad, reaching immediately for the phaser in the holster around his waist, which was no longer there.  
  
"Your sidearm was removed during transport," Udigawa informed the scientist. "We're placing you under arrest."  
  
"On what charge?"  
  
"Attempted assault on Federation officers. Attempted theft of a runabout."  
  
Vaaltan eyes narrowed and rage overtook him. He charged at Udigawa, thrusting his fist into the hated Asian face.  
  
"You Nip Gook bastard!" Vaaltan roared as his knuckles glanced off Udigawa's retreating jaw. The Elorean fell heavily into the ensign's body. Both men fell back onto the pilot's console. Naia stood back, intimidated by the intense hatred which she sensed that Vaaltan felt for Udigawa. She could sense the Elorean's rage but she could not understand it. It was this more than anything that petrified her into inaction. Udigawa recoiled from a number of punches to his face and head before finally coming to his senses, blocking Vaaltan's final blow with his left arm and smashing his own right fist squarely into Vaaltan's nose. The Elorean was forced to step back. His eyes began to water and before he could again attack his nemesis, Udigawa had grabbed his arm and twisted it around and across Vaaltan's back. The Elorean collapsed over the console, the ensign holding him tightly from behind.  
  
  
  
  
  
The Hindenberg streaked into the atmosphere of the m-class moon.  
  
"The stress on the hull is too great, the micro-fractures are becoming fractures! We're going to have to beam out!" Derek roared, laughing inanely.  
  
"I'm not leaving-I have to try and land her-"  
  
"Are you insane?! Manoeuvring thrusters are offline, you won't be able to-"  
  
Bernstein grabbed a firm hold of the Vulcan and hurled him onto the transporter pad. Derek dematerialised. Bernstein replaced his hands on the steering controls moments before the console exploded. Bernstein screamed, backed away from the smoking blaze, stumbled over to a cabinet on the starboard side of the ship and opened it to withdraw a fire extinguisher. He pointed the canister into the expanding conflagration and opened fire on it.  
  
Derek materialised on top of a hill of rock which protruded from a vast forest. He looked into the sky, watched the Hindenberg erupt into a great ball of flame, soaring across the sky, creating a beautiful wake of orange and black against the azure background. Derek could not find the words to describe the feelings he was going through as he watched the horrifying, beautiful spectacle; the feelings that were forbidden to him, that were taboo, ultimately prohibited, feelings the experience of which were ultimately seen by his people as wrong. The Hindenburg began to fall, its nose dropped suddenly, it fell into an awkward spiral, continued to fall, fall, disappeared into the forest, its demise marked by a brief explosion followed by a flash of flame, and what Derek thought to be a thousand distant screams ringing in his ears.  
  
"Bernstein," Derek eventually uttered, and, as he broke down on the rock, no words from his culture, he found, could articulate the emotions which overwhelmed him, the feelings of despair, of helplessness, of fear, of gratitude, of grief, of guilt, of self-loathing, all of them coming at once, in a merciless hailstorm of insanity.  
  
He fell to his knees, tears pumping down his face as his body wracked in convulsion upon convulsion upon convulsion.  
  
"Oh." he finally gasped, sucking exigent atmosphere into his lungs, "Oh the humanity."  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
The Spirit of Saint Louis landed in Docking Bay Two, its tractor beam trailing behind it, towing a tiny life pod through the docking bay doors before they slid shut. The smaller craft followed the runabout to the floor, and as Dhara Nessil and Sirc Tobriad emerged from the Federation vessel, Commander Phelps led a detail of security officers, armed with rifles, into the docking bay with officious speed.  
  
"Toby, Dhara, welcome back," Phelps greeted the senior officers, and Dhara Nessil gave him a mock salute.  
  
"We picked the life pod up making its way towards Cardassian space," Nessil said.  
  
"I don't suppose you came across the Hindenberg on your travels?" Phelps asked somewhat anxiously.  
  
"No," Tobriad responded.  
  
"Bernstein has yet to report in. We're going to set off after it, attempt to locate its ion wake before it degrades."  
  
The three senior officers followed the security team across the bay to the disabled life pod. Phelps nodded to the team leader, who squeezed off a phaser shot into the pod door's keypad. The door popped open, and Gul Barram, followed by a Vorta and two Jem'Hadar soldiers, emerged from within, hands raised and weaponless.  
  
  
  
Vaaltan sat on his bunk in the brig, head resting in his hands when Van Menzies entered from the corridor. The Elorean stood, moved towards the forcefield to meet the captain.  
  
"I'll have your commission for this," Vaaltan declared confidently.  
  
"I very much doubt that. It seems, professor, that you're something of a ronin."  
  
"A ronin, captain?" Vaaltan looked away, tried to recall the meaning of a word he had heard centuries earlier. When he found it, his face registered disgust.  
  
"You're a wandering mercenary who'll work for the highest bidder," Van Menzies went on, "You eked out a pretty profitable existence on twentieth century Earth."  
  
"That was along time ago, captain. I was a different person. I've. I've grown. Changed. Ethics mean different things in different centuries, to different people. One race's messiah is another's conqueror. Moral values change over time and I, too, have changed."  
  
"You know, Vaaltan, I think you're right. You have changed. On twentieth century Earth, you were fighting for a cause that you believed in. I don't doubt that. I admire it."  
  
"Captain, you have to understand, I never once. it was Oppenheimer who did all the work. And the others. I only gave them a little push in the right direction when they needed it. That's all. And it was a different time. I was in the right. on the right side."  
  
"But you were on the right side for all the wrong reasons, weren't you, professor?"  
  
"I. don't understand, captain."  
  
"You're still filled with hate, aren't you, Vaaltan?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"For the Japanese."  
  
"I have nothing against the Japanese, captain. Nothing at all."  
  
"We had to search the library for the meaning of the word 'gook', professor. But we found it. You'd be surprised at how many offensive archaisms you'll find in the dictionary."  
  
Vaaltan looked at Van Menzies; his face registered submission.  
  
"They murdered my wife," he muttered inaudibly.  
  
"Wh-?"  
  
"They murdered my wife at Pearl Harbour on December 7, 1941. They hadn't even declared war. Those. they murdered my wife," his teeth were grinding behind pursed lips as he withdrew a necklace from under his shirt, a wedding band hanging from it. He held it in a trembling palm. "They murdered my wife so I made sure they paid for it, captain. I advocated the dropping of the bombs. I told Truman he'd be saving the lives of the American G.I.'s. And I was right. Why waste millions of decent American men when you could wipe out a quarter of a million.? Beat them into submission. They would have done the same. They fight. they fight like animals, captain. merciless. gook animals. So he did it. They did it. And we won. And I felt. vindicated. But I could never forgive them. Not after what they'd done to my Vanessa. But they were forgiven. Released from the camps on U.S. soil, saturated by bubble-gum americana, all sorts of westernisation. they became accepted. Assimilated. I couldn't accept them. I had to leave. I was nauseous. And anyone who forgave them became my enemy. I am no ronin, captain. I was just fighting my own personal battle, that's all."  
  
"A four hundred year battle?"  
  
"A lot can happen in four hundred years, captain. I started working for the Tholians after leaving Federation space, invented their webbing technology for them. Then I went to Romulus and helped them to develop their cloaks, after which I sold my ideas to the Klingons. and I began to realise how incredibly pernicious those imperial regimes were. I came to the conclusion that the Federation was, in truth, the best of a bad bunch."  
  
"We have reason to suspect you're working for the Dominion."  
  
Vaaltan chuckled to himself.  
  
"And then," he began again, "Three years ago, after almost a century. I was blind drunk. half unconscious. in a bar on Setlik Three. and she was wearing next to nothing, captain. Very pretty. Beautiful. And she was human. Kyoko. City of Jewels, I think it meant. Kyoko Yamamoto. and I awoke the following morning and I saw her lying there beside me, in the embrace of Morpheus, eyes lightly closed, mouth open, slightly open. And I felt so disgusted, captain, ashamed that I had dishonoured Vanessa's memory by bedding a Gook whore. The disruptor blast was easily explained to the authorities. when you're a scientist, you can explain away anything. Experiments, experiments, experiments. And nobody missed her. I waited a whole month, waited for the knock on the door. For the arrest, the charge, the prison sentence. So I took off in a shuttle eventually, not wanting to tempt fate. I went through the wormhole, ended up in the Gamma Quadrant, encountered the Founders. And they restored my faith in vengeance. Do you know, I'm probably the foremost expert on changeling physiology in the Federation? Their biochemistry is really quite remarkable, captain. I returned to Federation space before the War broke out. Nobody had missed me, but I established a tight alibi for myself thanks to an acquaintance in the Orion Syndicate and offered my services to Weapons Development on Vulcan. Nobody would ever expect the Federation to establish a base like that on a planet of peace lovers. It was a stroke of genius. But the Dominion found out about it. I made sure of that. Because I was working for them all the time."  
  
"Why are you telling me all this?" Van Menzies asked.  
  
"Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe I've come to realise that I need help, captain. I never got my closure."  
  
"I'll give you your closure," Van Menzies said quietly.  
  
"Thank you, captain."  
  
Van Menzies turned to the security officer standing a few metres away at a console.  
  
"Lower the forcefield," he ordered. The forcefield came down, Van Menzies thrust his fist into the Elorean's face. Vaaltan fell back onto the floor as Van Menzies stepped into the cell.  
  
"I was considering sexual relations with someone other than my wife until just yesterday before your goddamned warship almost destroyed my vessel, Mister Vaaltan. In fact, there's this hot young ensign, she came onboard only last month, and the things I want to do to her. I won't go into specifics. I felt that having an affair with someone other than my wife would give me a little self-worth, and it probably would, Mister Vaaltan, because I'm a very superficial man. But you know, I've come to realise." Van Menzies picked Vaaltan off the floor, smashed his forehead into the war criminal's nose ".that just because something feels good, it doesn't necessarily mean that it's the right thing to do. I'm glad that you haven't discovered that yet, you childish shithead, because I'm going to, as my first officer would say, whup your ass. It'll make me feel better."  
  
Vaaltan held his broken nose to his face with both hands, looked in fear up at Van Menzies.  
  
"You. you can't do this. it's wrong."  
  
"Wrong means different things in different centuries, Mister Vaaltan. You've been a naughty listener, and I find you offensive. And don't think I don't pick up on the irony of kicking your butt from here to the Breen Homeworld in order to denounce your own predilection for ass-kicking. I, too, am a childish shithead. But I'm not the one who's responsible for the deaths of millions. maybe billions. of innocent sentient beings just because I've had a lousy millennium." Van Menzies drove a powerful foot into Vaaltan's stomach. "You're going to prison for a very long time, professor."  
  
  
  
  
  
The runabout door was pulled open and Derek stepped into the charred shell of the vehicle; interior walls were blackened, the seats were askew and slightly singed, the cabin still smouldering in semidarkness. The Vulcan peered into the shadows, waited for his eyes to adjust, and could make out Bernstein's body lying face down on the floor in the far corner of the cockpit. Derek moved towards it, gripped Bernstein by the shoulder and moved his body into a supine position, seeing that the face was burned almost beyond recognition. He folded the late security officer's hands over his torso. He moved his own hand slowly, with deference, up to Bernstein's face to close the ghoulish, lifeless eyes of the corpse with an index and middle finger.  
  
"Computer?" Derek asked hopefully, but he received no response. He made his way over to the replicator, saw that it was nothing more now than a functionless hole in the wall, exposed isolinear circuitry sparking infrequently, tiny wisps of smoke still flickering from it. He pulled open the drawer below the disabled replicator, and pulled out from within two packs of emergency rations. The packs had been burned and torn open, scorched and visibly inedible. He discarded the food on the floor, returned to the cockpit proper, opened the cabinet next to Bernstein's body, withdrew a functioning tricorder, pulled out a hand phaser and a compression rifle. He slipped the rifle over his shoulder, holstered the phaser and tricorder, departed the vessel without feeling sentiment.  
  
Derek had not eaten in twelve hours; he was hungry and foodless, stranded on a remote moon. He looked up into the early evening sky, a huge band seemingly splitting the day in two, the huge ring from the gas giant obviously producing the effect. He wondered if any sapient species had ever existed on this world, and how their religious beliefs may have been impacted by this big division in the sky.  
  
Derek was alone. But he felt somewhat cathartised; for some inexplicable reason he felt a great burden had been lifted from him.  
  
Maybe it's over, he thought to himself, maybe he'd beaten it without any help from anyone.  
  
He'd seen it through on his own.  
  
But he still felt hungry.  
  
He activated the tricorder, scanned the vicinity of the runabout.  
  
The trunks of the trees were rich in protein and carbohydrate. He stumbled weakly over to the nearest plant, analysed it closely, padded it with his free hand, leaned towards it and tore into bark ravenously with his teeth. The bark was delicious, and he started to chew with gusto as the tree screamed. Derek fell back, drew his phaser, pointed it at the tree in trepidation until the screaming subsided as suddenly as it began. Derek picked himself up, ran the tricorder over the wound he had created in the bark.  
  
"Escaping gas," he said at last, and began to masticate his food once more without fear of feeling any guilt. Not, he argued inwardly to himself, that a Vulcan could feel any guilt. Or fear, for that matter. He watched in curiosity as a bubbling ooze began to seep from the bark, making a bizarre popping sound. He ran his tricorder over the wound once more before setting the instrument to emit a continuous subspace distress signal and placed it carefully on the forest's verdurous floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Ten  
  
The doorbell to Van Menzies's ready room chimed once.  
  
"Enter," he called, and Ensign Burnett came through the door.  
  
"You wanted to see me, captain?"  
  
"Yes, ensign. Please. have a seat."  
  
"I'd. rather stand, sir," Burnett said coldly, eyes staring straight ahead, body erect.  
  
"Sit down ensign, that's an order."  
  
Burnett complied, sitting rigidly before Van Menzies, balled hands placed on her thighs.  
  
"Would you like. tea. coffee?"  
  
"No."  
  
"First of all, I would like to extend my condolences to you. I know you and Djanamar were close friends and..."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"I also want to apologise to you for how I handled the fiasco regarding the Tagmaari delegate. I was rude to you, I was." Van Menzies sighed, his eyes dropped to his desk. "I'm so sorry, Melissa."  
  
"It's Mel."  
  
He looked up at her, and he could see that she was looking at him with warm eyes.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"My. friends. call me Mel."  
  
"Mel. Mel, I.eh. you see, I've been having a kind of a. rough time lately.I've . well.I suppose you could say I've been going through a midlife crisis. I've. eh. put it beside me.put it behind me now and eh."  
  
"Captain, there's no need-"  
  
"Please, Melissa-just hear me out. it's important to me. Mel. Mel. eh. look, um. I kind of came down really hard on you because. please don't take this the wrong way. I don't want you to think that I'm em. I'm happily married for the last twenty years. Did you know that? All right, I have a crush on you, ensign, and that's why I was so rough, so incredibly unfair and completely insensitive and I just kind of fancy you, just a little bit, and when my wife is three weeks away at high warp I get a little. I've never been unfaithful, don't get me wrong. Well once, early on, but we worked it out. What I'm trying to say is that I let my feelings for you obscure. cloud my better judgement and this crush I have. it kind of tipped the balance. is it a crush? I mean, I'm fifty-two. How old are you?"  
  
"Twenty-four."  
  
"So it's kind of a reverse crush. A h'surc, you might say."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"Never mind. It's harmless, you know. I mean, I'm not going to stalk you or anything. I kind of overcompensated because of the crush thing. Displaced all my. you're going to tell everyone about this, aren't you?"  
  
Burnett got to her feet and winked.  
  
"I think I'll keep this to myself. It will be our little secret."  
  
"Very good."  
  
"And you know, sir, it's kind of taught me a lesson."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"I've noticed all my life that I was attractive to the opposite sex. I never really looked on myself as good looking but I used to see men staring, ogling, and I figured I must be aesthetically pleasing to them. I saw it as an advantage. A means of getting ahead. And I think I use my looks to manipulate men, sometimes, you know? Just subconsciously."  
  
"Mmm."  
  
"But this mission taught me that it can be a hindrance as well as a help. Being good looking, I mean."  
  
"A learning experience, I would think."  
  
"Yes, sir. I appreciate your honesty, captain."  
  
She made for the door. Before she reached it, she turned around, moved quickly towards her senior officer's desk, reached over, grabbed his collar and clinched his lower lip between her own two, drawing his mouth open before releasing him and retracing her steps out of the ready room. The door hissed shut behind her, and Van Menzies was left staring after her, his mouth gaping open.  
  
  
  
  
  
Derek sat in sickbay as Tobriad ran the hand piece from his medical tricorder around the Vulcan's head.  
  
"You know, I should have picked up on it when you came in for your medical the other day," the chief medic said apologetically.  
  
"You are not to blame, doctor. I merely disguised my condition successfully."  
  
"You took a huge risk with your health, Derek."  
  
"It is a very private experience. It was difficult, indeed, impossible, to confide in anyone."  
  
"So you just. didn't think about it. at all?"  
  
"I purged my mind of all thoughts of a sexual nature," Derek replied.  
  
"Tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk." Tobriad replaced the tricorder on the trolley at the foot of the bed. "You cannot go through Pon Farr without thinking about sex, lieutenant. It's not logical."  
  
"Neither is it logical to think about nothing but sex when friends and acquaintances are dying all around you."  
  
"Vulcan neurochemistry is such that you have to get some every seven years, Derek. End of story. What if you had burst?" Tobriad asked.  
  
"I am not amused, doctor."  
  
Tobriad slammed a shot into his hypospray, lifted Derek's chin slightly and pumped the drug into his patient's neck.  
  
"This is what I think happened to you. You began experiencing Pon Farr six weeks ago. You started feeling a little bit frisky. But in the middle of a war, you felt guilty about the whole thing. And you Vulcans are so emotionally repressed anyway, you figured you'd keep it to yourself. Am I right?"  
  
The Vulcan remained expressionless, interested in the story nonetheless.  
  
"So you started to purge your thoughts, censor your feelings, block them out. You tried to carry on as normal. This eventually instigated an onslaught of emotions which led you, essentially, to lose your mind."  
  
"On the Enterprise, I helped to prevent a Dominion takeover of the vessel. I. fired on an unarmed Jem'Hadar soldier. I have been. I excused my actions through prejudice and hate, arguing that the Jem'Hadar are. subsentient beings. Much of my emotional debility was negated by the prejudice I felt. I am just now coming to realise that what I did was wrong."  
  
"Was the Jem'Hadar soldier going to kill you?" Tobriad asked.  
  
"Yes, he was in the process of attacking me. However-"  
  
"Well, then, what you did was logical. It was the logical thing to do."  
  
"Yes, doctor, but-"  
  
"I don't want you to dwell on it, Derek. Now." Tobriad picked up a padd, began to write on it with a pen. "I'm prescribing for you a regimen which must be strictly adhered to. And that's an order." He handed Derek the padd, the Vulcan took it, read the screen, looked back at Tobriad, looked back at the screen.  
  
"The language contained in this prescription is. flowery."  
  
"I felt I had to use strong language to emphasise the importance of its contents," the doctor retorted.  
  
"Am I dismissed?" Derek asked, slipping off the bed.  
  
"Yes. You're dismissed from this sickbay and you're temporarily dismissed from active service as a Star Fleet officer. Doctor's orders."  
  
"Thank you, doctor." The Vulcan passed through the sickbay doors to be met by Leroy Phelps.  
  
"Mister Derek," he said.  
  
"Lieutenant Commander Phelps," Derek replied, as they began to stride down the corridor together.  
  
"Listen, Derek, the cap'n has heard about your condition and he's dropping the insubordination charge."  
  
"Who else knows about my condition?" Derek asked, a hint of alarm in his voice.  
  
"Oh, me, Dhara Nessil, Corporal Karg, Lieut'nant Laru, Ensign Udigawa, Gates, Gilson, the population of Tagmaaros, Admiral Paris and everyone at Deep Space Four, Chancellor Gowron and the Klingon Council, General Martok, Ambassador Spock, Captains Picard, Sisko, Jellicoe, Denning, Vorn, all the cadets at Star Fleet Academy San Francisco send their best wishes, as does Grand Nagus Zek and the Ferengi Alliance. We're all rootin' for you Derek."  
  
Derek was not amused.  
  
"Just me and Art. And Toby. That's it, Derek. I promise."  
  
"I would appreciate it if it stayed that way," the Vulcan said.  
  
"That's cool, lieut'nant. The cap'n admits that he was wrong as well."  
  
"Wrong?"  
  
"About how he treated Burnett. And he apologises for it, told me to tell you that you were right to oppose him."  
  
Derek thought about this for a moment before saying  
  
"That is very commendable."  
  
"He apologised to Burnett already, and he wants to do the same to you in person."  
  
"That is not necessary. We were both in error. I too shall refrain from filing a report with Star Fleet."  
  
"Yeah, well, just so you know. Where you goin' now anyway?" Phelps asked.  
  
"I am going to Hydroponics Research. I have. things to verify." The Vulcan stepped into the turbolift, the doors closed, and, once alone, Derek's mouth broke into a smile. "What if you had burst?" he repeated, and tittered to himself. "We're all rootin' for you, Derek." Again, he laughed. It was a warm feeling. He arrived at Deck Six presently, emerged from the turbolift and walked directly across the corridor into Hydroponics to be greeted by Lieutenant Commander Dhara Nessil.  
  
"Commander," he said.  
  
"They're intelligent," she confirmed, a little sadly.  
  
"You're certain?" he asked.  
  
"They have a highly complex nervous system, they communicate to each other through enzymes, pollination, vibrations and gas secretion through tiny spiracles in the bark which would seem to contain a very sophisticated RNA- based language. It's really the first time I've heard of anything like it. Would you mind if I wrote a paper on this?"  
  
"Not at all, commander. A good many of them were killed when the runabout crashed and. I feasted on chunks of. a number of them."  
  
"You weren't to know, Derek. It's not your fault."  
  
"I am beginning to think, commander, that it never is."  
  
  
  
Van Menzies's ready room doorbell chimed. The captain closed his mouth, composed himself before shouting  
  
"Enter."  
  
The Vorta came in, followed by a security guard, an obsequious but obviously supercilious smirk stretching from ridged ear to ridged ear.  
  
"My name is Tyron. I would like to officially request political asylum from the United Federation of Planets."  
  
Van Menzies looked at the Vorta, finally returning the smile as his eyes dropped down to the large glass jar of turquoise liquid sitting on the corner of his desk.  
  
"Might I interest you in a drink, Mr. Tyron?" Van Menzies asked politely.  
  
  
  
Epilogue  
  
Admiral Paris stood waiting at the airlock as it rumbled open slowly and Van Menzies, Phelps, Corporal Karg and Derek, dressed in civilian clothes, arrived on Deep Space Four from the Lovelock.  
  
"Welcome back, gentlemen," Paris said, extending his arm in greeting, a broad smile on his face. "I have some good news. We've just received word that the Romulans have entered the war on the side of the Federation."  
  
"That's heartening, admiral," Van Menzies said, taking Paris's arm. "We have five prisoners of war to unload. Lieutenant Derek has decided to take a break, go home for a couple of months. We have some armour from the Dominion vessel you might be interested in taking a look at. And we have a. memorial service to prepare. I need a new engineer and a new security officer before we take on any more assignments, sir. We've all had a rough few days and I'm considering, with your permission, a few days' shore leave for the crew. Nej Seven is just four hours away at high warp, and I believe the equatorial climate there is conducive to sleep, which is what we all could do with right now."  
  
"You have four days, captain."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"And these prisoners. where are they?"  
  
"They're in the brig. With the exception of the bird, sir. We assigned him quarters of his own."  
  
"The bird, captain?"  
  
Phelps looked at Van Menzies, could see the captain setting up the admiral for the punchline.  
  
"Actually, admiral, he's a Vorta," Phelps said, "But he sings like a canary."  
  
"Oh," Paris said, "Oh, I see." The admiral laughed, and Van Menzies threw Phelps a dirty look.  
  
"Well, gentlemen, the memorial service will be taking place tomorrow morning at 1100 hours. I think that's all for now. Apart from the fact, captain, that next time you follow standard procedure and contact Star Fleet Command every eight hours. Capiche?"  
  
"Loud and clear, admiral," Van Menzies replied.  
  
"See you in the morning."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
The admiral departed, leaving the four officers alone together. Van Menzies turned to Derek.  
  
"I've decided to rename the runabouts."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"The Parmenides, the Aristotle and the Plato. A megalomaniac, a misogynist and an alleged paedophile respectively."  
  
A glint appeared in Derek's eye. Phelps was not certain, but he thought it might have been the genesis of a tear.  
  
"Thank you, captain. For everything."  
  
"Oh, no need. So you're going back to Vulcan?"  
  
"Yes, captain. But first I must return to Bernstein's Moon. I believe I have an apology to make to some trees."  
  
Van Menzies shrugged, smirked, said,  
  
"Hey, whatever turns you on." The two men shook hands, Phelps followed suit, and Derek set off down the corridor after giving them a Vulcan salutation.  
  
The two humans and the Klingon set off in the opposite direction, arriving at the next set of airlock doors on the corridor.  
  
"This is my warbird," Karg said, and he presented a bottle of wine to Van Menzies. "It's seventy-two years old."  
  
Van Menzies held the bottle in his hands. "I'll keep it for your next visit."  
  
"You do not fight like a warrior, Art, son of Douglas, but you fight nonetheless. Die with honour."  
  
"Kill. many. armed opponents. who are not cowards."  
  
"I will." Karg thrust his arm over his chest, Van Menzies and Phelps mimicked the move, and the Klingon entered through the airlock door.  
  
"You stole my line, Leroy," Van Menzies said when they were alone.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"The canary joke. You stole it."  
  
"Yeah. I guess I know you pretty well, Art. How'd the apology go with Burnett?"  
  
"Great. I was completely honest with her, she took it very well. She kissed me."  
  
"On the lips?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"With tongues?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh, well."  
  
"I've kind of gone off her a little."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"I think she's. too into her looks."  
  
"Well, if I looked like Burnett, hell, I'd be Narcissus."  
  
"Her breath wasn't great either."  
  
"Bully for her. So, we still playing snooker tonight on the holodeck?"  
  
"I'm certainly playing. You were knocked out in the quarters, remember?"  
  
"Hey, I'm an American. I'd whup your ass at pool." 


End file.
